The  Poems 
and  Plays 
of  Oliver 
Goldsmith 
edited  by 
AmsfcblfcbsoB 

A*,  dp 


-1^,  \: 


Ex  Libris 
C.  K.  OGDEN 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


»  I 


POEMS   AND    PLAYS 

OF 

OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


f*ZZ£j£^> 


[Canonbury  Tower  is  all  that  now  exists  of  a  very  ancient 
manor-house  at  Islington.  In  the  last  century  it  was  let  in 
apartments,  and  was  much  patronized  by  literary  men. 
Busy  John  Newbery,  the  bookseller,  a  frequent  resident, 
ultimately  died  there,  and  among  the  other  lodgers  were 
Chambers  the  Encyclopaedist,  Smart  the  poet,  Woodfall  the 
editor  of  Junius's  Letters,  Speaker  Onslow,  Dr.  John  Hill, 
and  Oliver  Goldsmith.  In  these  days  of  vanishing 
antiquities,  it  may  fitly  form  the  frontispiece  to  a  volume  of 
poems,  of  which  some  may  have  been  written  within  its 
walls.] 


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.(SwSwy^er. 


THE 

POEMS   AND   PLAYS 

OF 

OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 


^s§^> 


EDITED    BY 

AUSTIN    DOBSON 
With  Frontispiece  by  Herbert  Railton 


LONDON 
J.     M.     DENT     AND     CO. 

69  GREAT  EASTERN  STREET 
iSgi 


CHISWICK    PRESS  :— C.    WHITTINGHAM    AND  Co., 
TOOKS   COURT,    CHANCERY    LANE. 


CONTENTS. 

PACE 

Introduction vii 

POEMS. 

The  Traveller  ;  or,  a  Prospect  of  Society       ....  i 

The  Deserted  Village 25 

Retaliation 47 

The  Haunch  of  Venison 59 

Prologue  of  Laberius  ....          •  69 

On  a  Beautiful  Youth  struck  blind  with  Lightning      .  70 

The  Gift.     To  Iris,  in  Bow  Street 71 

The  Logicians  Refuted 73 

A  Sonnet 75 

Stanzas  on  the  Taking  of  Quebec 76 

An  Elegy  on  Mrs.  Mary  Bbize 77 

Description  of  an  Author';  B-dchamber 79 

On  seeing  Mrs.  *  *  perform  in  the  Character  of  *  *  *  81 

On  the  Death  of  the  Right  Hon.  *  *  *        82 

An  Epigram 84 

To  G.  C.  and  R.  L 85 

Translation  of  a  South  American  Ode 85 

The  Double  Transformation.     A  Tale 86 

A  New  Simile,  in  the  Manner  of  Swift 90 

Edwin  and  Angelina 93 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog 100 

Song  ("  When  Lovely  Woman,"  etc.) 102 

Epilogue  to  "The  Sister" 103 

A2 


"!    C  *■■ 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Prologue  to  "  Zobeide  " 105 

Threnodia  Augustalis 107 

Song  ("Ah  me  !  when  shall  I  many  me  ?  ")  .     .     .     .  120 

Translation 121 

Epitaph  on  Thomas  Parnell 122 

The  Clown's  Reply 123 

Epitaph  on  Edward  Purdon 123 

Epilogue  for  Lee  Lewes        124 

Epilogue  written  for  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  "  (1)     .  126 

Epilogue  written  for  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  "  (2)     .  131 

The  Captivity  :  an  Oratorio 133 

Verses  in  Reply  to  an  Invitation  to  Dinner    ....  149 

Letter  in  Prose  and  Verse  to  Mrs.  Bunbury  ....  152 

Translation  of  Vida's  "  Came  of  Chess  " 158 

The  Good-Natur'd  Man 181 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer    .     .     .     .     , 285 

Scene  from  The  Grumbler 397 


Vg^i 


INTRODUCTION. 


IIIRTY  years  of  taking-in ;  fifteen  years 
of  giving  out ; — that,  in  brief,  is  Oliver 
Goldsmith's  story.  When,  in  175S, 
his  failure  to  pass  at  Surgeons'  Hall 
finally  threw  him  on  letters  for  a  living,  the  thirty 
years  were  finished,  and  the  fifteen  years  had  been 
begun.  What  was  to  come  he  knew  not ;  but, 
from  his  bare-walled  lodging  in  Green-Arbour 
Court,  he  could  at  least  look  back  upon  a  sufficiently 
diversified  past.  lie  had  been  an  idle,  orchard- 
robbing  schoolboy  ;  a  tuneful  but  intractable  sizar 
of  Trinity;  a  lounging,  loitering,  fair-haunting,  flute- 
playing  Irish  ' '  buckeen. "  He  had  tried  both  Law 
and  Divinity,  and  crossed  the  threshold  of  neither. 
He  had  started  for  London  and  stopped  at  Dublin  ; 
he  had  set  out  for  America  and  arrived  at  Cork. 
He  had  been  many  things  :— a  medical  student, 
a  strolling  musician,  a  corrector  of  the  press,  an 
apothecary,  an  usher  at  a  Peckham  "academy." 
Judged  by  ordinary  standards,  he  had  wantonly 
wasted  his  time.  And  yet,  as  things  fell  out,  it  is 
doubtful  whether   his   parti-coloured  experiences 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

were  not  of  more  service  to  him  than  any  he  could 
have  obtained  if  his  progress  had  been  less  erratic. 
Had  he  fulfilled  the  modest  expectations  of  his 
family,  he  would  probably  have  remained  a  simple 
curate  in  Westmeath,  eking  out  his  "forty  pounds 
a  year"  by  farming  a  field  or  two,  migrating  con- 
tentedly at  the  fitting  season  from  the  "blue  bed 
to  the  brown,"  and  (it  may  be)  subsisting  vaguely 
as  a  local  poet  upon  the  tradition  of  some  youthful 
couplets  to  a  pretty  cousin,  who  had  married  a  richer 
man.  As  it  was,  if  he  could  not  be  said  "to  have 
seen  life  steadily,  and  seen  it  whole,"  he  had,  at  all 
events,  inspected  it  pretty  narrowly  in  parts  ;  and, 
at  a  time  when  he  was  most  impressible,  had  pre- 
served the  impress  of  many  things  which,  in  his 
turn,  he  was  to  re-impress  upon  his  writings.  "  No 
man  " — says  one  of  his  biographers — "ever  put  so 
much  of  himself  into  his  books  as  Goldsmith." 
To  his  last  hour  he  was  drawing  upon  the  thoughts 
and  reviving  the  memories  of  that  "  unhallowed 
time  "  when,  to  all  appearance,  he  was  hopelessly 
squandering  his  opportunities.  To  do  as  Gold- 
smith did,  would  scarcely  enable  a  man  to  write  a 
Vicar  of  Wakefield  or  a  Deserted  Village, — certainly 
his  practice  cannot  be  preached  with  safety  "to 
those  that  eddy  round  and  round."  But  viewing 
his  entire  career,  it  is  difficult  not  to  see  how  one 
part  seems  to  have  been  an  indispensable  prepara- 
tion for  the  other,  and  to  marvel  once  more  (with 
the  philosopher  Square)  at  "  the  eternal  Fitness  of 
Things." 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 

II. 

The  events  of  Goldsmith's  life  have  been  too 
often  narrated  to  need  repetition  here,  and  we  shall 
not  resort  to  the  well-worn  device  of  repeating 
them  in  order  to  say  so.  But,  in  a  fresh  reprint  of 
his  Poems  and  Plays,  some  brief  preamble  to  those 
branches  of  his  work  may  be  excusable,  and  even 
useful.  And,  with  regard  to  both,  what  strikes 
one  first  is  the  extreme  tardiness  of  that  late  blos- 
soming to  which  Johnson  referred.  When  a  man 
succeeds  as  Goldsmith  succeeded,  friends  and 
critics  speedily  discover  that  he  had  shown  signs 
of  excellence  even  from  his  boyish  years.  But, 
setting  aside  those  half-mythical  ballads  for  the 
Dublin  street-singers,  and  some  doubtful  verses 
for  Jane  Contarine,  there  is  no  definite  evidence 
that,  from  a  doggerel  couplet  in  his  childhood  to 
an  epigram  not  much  better  than  doggerel  com- 
posed when  he  was  five  and  twenty,  he  had  written 
a  line  of  verse  of  the  slightest  importance ;  and 
even  five  years  later,  although  he  refers  to  himself 
in  a  private  letter  as  a  "poet,"  it  must  have  been 
solely  upon  the  strength  of  the  unpublished  frag- 
ment of  The  Traveller,  which  in  the  interval,  he 
had  sent  to  his  brother  Henry  from  abroad.  It 
is  even  more  remarkable  that — although  so  skilful 
a  correspondent  must  have  been  fully  sensible  of 
his  gifts — until,  under  the  pressure  of  circumstances, 
he  drifted  into  literature,  the  craft  of  letters  seems 
never  to  have  been  his  ambition.  He  thinks  of 
being  a  lawyer,  a  physician,  a  clergyman, — any- 
thing but  an  author  ;  and  when  at  last  he  engage.-; 


x  INTRODUCTION. 

in  that  profession,  it  is  to  free  himself  from  a  scho- 
lastic servitude  which  he  appears  to  have  always 
regarded  with  peculiar  bitterness,  yet  to  which, 
after  a  first  unsatisfactory  trial  of  what  was  to  be 
his  true  vocation,  he  unhesitatingly  returned.  If 
he  went  back  once  more  to  his  pen,  it  was  only  to 
enable  him  to  escape  from  it  more  effectually,  and 
he  was  prepared  to  go  as  far  as  Coromandel.  But 
Literature — "  toute  eutiere  a  saproie  attachce  " — re- 
fused to  relinquish  him  ;  and,  although  he  con- 
tinued to  make  spasmodic  efforts  to  extricate 
himself,  detained  him  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

If  there  is  no  evidence  that  he  had  written  much 
when  he  entered  upon  what  has  been  called  his 
second  period,  he  had  not  the  less  formed  his 
opinions  on  many  literary  questions.  Much  of  the 
matter  of  the  Polite  Learni?ig  is  plainly  manufac- 
tured ad  hoc;  but  in  its  references  to  authorship  and 
criticism,  there  is  a  personal  note  which  is  absent 
elsewhere  ;  and  when  he  speaks  of  the  tyranny 
of  publishers,  the  sordid  standards  of  criticism,  and 
the  forlorn  and  precarious  existence  of  the  hapless 
writer  for  bread,  he  is  evidently  reproducing  a 
condition  of  things  with  which  he  had  become 
familiar  during  his  brief  bondage  on  the  Monthly 
Review.  As  to  his  personal  views  on  poetry  in 
particular,  it  is  easy  to  collect  them  from  this,  and 
later  utterances.  Against  blank  verse  he  protests 
from  the  first,  as  suited  only  to  the  sublimest 
themes— which  is  a  polite  way  of  shelving  it 
altogether  ;  while  in  favour  of  rhyme  he  alleges 
that  the  very  restriction  stimulates  the  fancy,  as 
a  fountain   plays   higher    when   the    aperture  is 


INTRODUCTION.  xi 

diminished.     Blank   verse,   too  (he  asserted),  im- 
ported   into   poetry    a    "  disgusting   solemnity    of 
manner  "  which  was  fatal  to  "  agreeable  trifling," 
— an  objection  intimately  connected  with  the  feel- 
ing which  afterwards  made  him  the  champion  on 
the  stage  of  character  and  humour.     Among  the 
poets  who  were  his  contemporaries  and  immediate 
predecessors,  his  likes  and  dislikes  were  strong. 
He  fretted  at  the  fashion  which  Gray's  Elegy  set 
in  poetry ;  he  considered  it  a  fine  poem,  but  "  over- 
loaded with  epithet,"  and  he  deplored  the  remote- 
ness and  want  of  emotion  which  distinguished  the 
Pindaric  Odes.     Yet  from  many  indications  in  his 
own  writings,  he  seems  to  have  genuinely  appre- 
ciated   the    work    of    Collins.       Churchill,    and 
Churchill's  satire,  he  detested.     With  Young  he 
had  some  personal  acquaintance,  and  had  atten- 
tively read  his  Night  Thoughts.    Of  the  poets  of  the 
last  age,  he  admired  Dryden,  Pope  and  Gay,  but 
more  than  any  of  these,  if  imitation  is  to  be  re- 
garded as  the  proof  of  sympathy,  Prior,  Addison 
and  Swift.     By  his  inclinations  and  his  training, 
indeed,  he  belonged  to  this  school.     But  he  was 
in  advance  of  it  in  thinking  that  poetry,  however 
didactic  after  the  fashion  of  his  own  day,  should 
be  simple  in  its  utterance  and  directed  at  the  many 
rather  than  the  few.    This  is  what  he  meant  when, 
from  the  critical  elevation  of  Griffiths'  back  par- 
lour, he  recommended  Gray  to  take  the  advice  of 
Isocrates,  and  "  study  the  people."     If,  with  these 
ideas,  he  had  been  able  to  divest  himself  of  the 
"  warbling  groves  "   and    "  finny  deeps  "  of  the 
Popesque  vocabulary  (of  much  of  the  more  "mc- 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

chanic  art "  of  that  supreme  artificer  he  did  suc« 
cessfully  divest  himself),  it  would  have  needed 
but  little  to  make  him  a  prominent  pioneer  of  the 
new  school  which  was  coming  with  Cowper.  As 
it  is,  his  poetical  attitude  is  a  little  that  inter- 
mediate one  of  Longfellow's  maiden — 

"  Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet." 

Most  of  his  minor  and  earlier  pieces  are  imitative 
In  A  New  Simile,  and  The  Logicians  Refuted, 
Swift  is  his  acknowledged  model  ;  in  The  Double 
Transformation  it  is  Prior,  modified  by  certain 
theories  personal  to  himself.  He  was  evidently 
well  acquainted  with  collections  like  the  Mena- 
giana,  and  with  the  French  minor  poets  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  many  of  which  latter  were 
among  his  books  at  his  death.  These  he  had 
carefully  studied,  probably  during  his  continental 
wanderings,  and  from  them  he  derives,  like  Prior, 
much  of  his  grace  and  metrical  buoyancy.  The 
Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog,  and  Madam 
Blaize,  are  both  more  or  less  constructed  on  the 
old  French  popular  song  of  the  hero  of  Pavia, 
Jacques  de  Chabannes,  Seigneur  de  la  Palice 
(sometimes  Galisse),  with,  in  the]  case  of  the 
former,  a  tag  from  an  epigram  by  Voltaire,  the 
original  of  which  is  in  the  Greek  Anthology,  though 
Voltaire  simply  "conveyed  "  his  version  from  an 
anonymous  French  predecessor.  Similarly  the 
lively  stanzas  To  Iris,  in  Bozv  Street,  the  lines 
to  Myra,  the  quatrain  called  A  South  American 
Ode,  and  that  On  a  Beautiful   Youth  struck  blind 


INTRODUCTION.  x;jj 

with  Lightning,  are  all  confessed  or  unconfessed 
translations.  It  is  possible  that  if  Goldsmith  had 
lived  to  collect  his  own  works,  he  would  have 
announced  the  source  of  his  inspiration  in  these 
instances  as  well  as  in  one  or  two  other  cases — the 
epitaph  on  Ned  Purdon,  for  example, — where  it  has 
been  reserved  to  his  editors  to  discover  his  obliga- 
tions. On  the  other  hand,  he  might  havecontended, 
with  perfect  justice,  that  whatever  the  soui-ce  of  his 
ideas,  he  had  made  them  his  own  when  he  got 
them  ;  and  certainly  in  lilt  and  lightness,  the  lines 
To  Iris  are  infinitely  superior  to  those  of  La 
Monnoye,  on  which  they  are  based.  But  even  a 
fervent  admirer  may  admit  that,  dwelling  as  he 
did  in  this  very  vitreous  palace  of  Gallic  adaptation, 
one  does  not  expect  to  find  him  throwing  stones  at 
Prior  for  borrowing  from  the  French,  or  com- 
menting solemnly  in  the  life  of  Parnell  upon  the 
heinousness  of  plagiarism.  "It  was  the  fashion," 
he  says,  "  with  the  wits  of  the  last  age,  to  conceal 
the  places  from  whence  they  took  their  hints  or 
their  subjects.  A  trifling  acknowledgment  would 
have  made  that  lawful  prize,  which  may  now  be 
considered  as  plunder."  He  might  judiciously 
have  added  to  this  latter  sentence  the  quotation 
which  he  struck  out  of  the  second  issue  of  the 
Polite  Learning, — "  Hand  inexpert  its  loauor." 

Of  his  longer  pieces,  The  Traveller  was  ap- 
parently suggested  to  him  by  Addison's  Letter 
from  Italy  to  Lord  Halifax,  a.  poem  to  which,  in 
his  preliminary  notes  to  the  Beauties  of  English 
Poesy,  he  gives  significant  praise.  "There  is  in 
it,"  he  says,  "a  strain  of  political  thinking  that 

b 


xW  INTRODUCTION 

was,  at  that  time,  new  in  our  poetry."  He 
obviously  intended  that  The  Traveller  should  be 
admired  for  the  same  reason  ;  and  both  in  that 
poem  and  its  successor,  The  Deserted  Village,  he 
lays  stress  upon  the  political  import  of  his  work. 
The  one,  we  are  told,  is  to  illustrate  the  position 
that  the  happiness  of  the  subject  is  independent  of 
the  goodness  of  the  Sovereign  ;  the  other,  to 
deplore  the  increase  of  luxury  and  the  miseries  of 
depopulation.  But,  as  a  crowd  of  commentators 
have  pointed  out,  it  is  hazardous  for  a  poet  to 
meddle  with  "political  thinking,"  however  much, 
under  George  the  Second,  it  may  have  been  need- 
ful to  proclaim  a  serious  purpose.  If  Goldsmith 
had  depended  solely  upon  the  professedly  didactic 
part  of  his  attempt,  his  work  would  be  as  dead  as 
Freedom,  or  Sympathy,  or  any  other  of  Dodsley's 
forgotten  quartos.  Fortunately  he  did  more  than 
this.  Sensibly  or  insensibly,  he  suffused  his  work 
with  that  philanthropy  which  is  "  not  learned  by 
the  royal  road  of  tracts,  and  platform  speeches,  and 
monthly  magazines,"  but  by  personal  commerce 
with  poverty  and  sorrow  ;  and  he  made  his  appeal 
to  that  clinging  love  of  country,  of  old  association, 
of  "home-bred  happiness,"  of  innocent  pleasure, 
which,  with  Englishmen,  is  never  made  in  vain. 
Employing  the  couplet  of  Pope  and  Johnson,  he 
has  added  to  his  measure  a  suavity  that  belonged  to 
neither  ;  but  the  beauty  of  his  humanity  and  the 
tender  melancholy  of  his  wistful  retrospect  hold 
us  more  strongly  and  securely  than  the  studious 
finish  of  his  style. 

' '  Vingt  foissur  le  metier  remetlez  voire  ouvrage  " 


WTR  OD  UC  TION.  x  v 

— said  the  arch-critic  whose  name,  according  to 
Keats,  the  school  of  Pope  displayed  upon  their 
"  decrepit  standard."  Even  in  The  Traveller  and 
The  Desei-ted  Village,  there  are  indications  of 
over-labour  ;  but  in  a  poem  which  comes  between 
them — the  once  famous  Edwin  and  Angelina — 
Goldsmith  certainly  carried  out  Boileau's  maxim 
to  the  full.  The  first  privately-printed  version 
differs  considerably  from  that  in  the  first  edition 
of  the  Vicar;  this  again  is  altered  in  the  fourth; 
and  there  are  other  variations  in  the  piece  as 
printed  in  the  Poems  for  Young  Ladies.  "  As  to 
my  'Hermit ',"  said  the  poet  complacently,  "  that 
poem,  Cradock,  cannot  be  amended,"  and  un- 
doubtedly it  has  been  skilfully  wrought.  But  it  is 
impossible  to  look  upon  it  now  with  the  unpurged 
eyes  of  those  upon  whom  the  Reliqiies  of  A  ncient 
Poetry  had  but  recently  dawned,  still  less  to 
endorse  the  verdict  of  Sir  John  Hawkins  that  "it 
is  one  of  the  finest  poems  of  the  lyric  kind  that  our 
language  has  to  boast  of."  Its  over-soft  prcttiness 
is  too  much  that  of  the  chromo-lithograph  or  the 
Parian  bust  (the  porcelain,  not  the  marble),  and 
its  "beautiful  simplicity"  is  in  parts  perilously 
close  upon  that  inanity  which  Johnson,  whose 
sturdy  good  sense  not  even  friendship  could  silence, 
declared  to  be  the  characteristic  of  much  of  Percy's 
collection.  It  is  instructive  as  a  study  of  poetical 
progress  to  contrast  it  with  a  ballad  of  our  own 
day  in  the  same  measure — the  Talking  Oak  of 
Tennyson. 

The  remaining  poems  of  Goldsmith,  excluding 
the     Captivity,    and    the    admittedly   occasional 


xvi  INTRODUCTION. 

Threnodia  Angitstalis,  are  not  open  to  the  charge 
of  fictitious  simplicity,  or  of  that  hyper-elaboration, 
which,  in  the  words  of  the  poet  just  mentioned, 
makes  for  the  "ripe  and  rotten."  The  gallery  of 
kit-cats  in  Retaliation,  and  the  delightful  bonhomie 
of  The  Haunch  of  Venison  need  no  commendation. 
In  kindly  humour  and  not  unkindlysatire  Goldsmith 
was  at  his  best,  and  the  imperishable  portraits  of 
Burke  and  Garrick  and  Reynolds,  and  the  in- 
imitable dinner  at  which  Lord  Clare's  pasty  was 
not,  are  as  well  known  as  any  of  the  stock  passages 
of  The  Deserted  Village  or  The  Traveller,  though 
they  have  never  been  babbled  "  in  extremis  vicis" 
by  successive  generations  of  schoolboys.  It  is 
usually  said,  probably  with  truth,  that  in  these 
poems  and  the  delightful  Letter  to  Airs.  Bnnbury, 
Goldsmith's  metre  was  suggested  by  the  cantering 
anapests  of  the  Neiv  Bath  Guide,  and  it  is  to  be 
observed  that  ' '  Little  Comedy's  "  letter  of  invita- 
tion is  to  the  same  popular  tune.  But  in  annotating 
this  edition,  some  enquiries  as  to  the  song  of  Ally 
Croaker  mentioned  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  elicited 
the  fact  that  a  line  of  that  once  popular  lyric — 

"  Too  dull  for  a  wit,  too  grave  for  a  joker" — 
has  a  kind  of  echo  in  the-r— 

"  Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit " — 

of  Burke's  portrait  in  Retaliation.  What  is  still 
more  remarkable  is  that  Gray's  Sketch  of  his  own 
Character,  the  resemblance  of  which  to  Gold- 
smith has  been  pointed  out  by  his  editors, 
begins — 

"Too  poor  for  a  bribe,  and  too  proud  to  importune." 


INTRODUCTION.  xvii 

Whether  Goldsmith  was  thinking  of  Anstey  or 
Ally  Croaker,  it  is  at  least  worthy  of  passing  notice 
that  an  Irish  song  of  no  particular  literary  merit 
should  have  succeeded  in  haunting  the  two  fore- 
most poets  of  their  day. 

III. 

Poetry  brought  Goldsmith  fame,  but  money 
only  indirectly.  Those  Saturnian  days  of  the 
subscription-edition,  when  Pope  and  Gay  and 
Prior  counted  their  gains  by  thousands,  were  over 
and  gone.  He  had  arrived,  it  has  been  weli  said, 
too  late  for  the  Patron,  and  too  early  for  the 
Public.  Of  his  lighter  pieces  the  best  were  post- 
humous ;  the  rest  were  either  paid  for  at  hack 
prices  or  not  at  all.  For  The  Descried  Village 
Griffin  gave  him  a  hundred  guineas,  a  sum  so  un- 
exampled as  to  have  prompted  the  pleasant  legend 
that  he  returned  it.  For  The  Traveller  the  only 
payment  that  can  be  definitely  traced  is  £2.1.  "  1 
cannot  afford  to  court  the  draggle-tail  Muses," 
he  said  laughingly  to  Lord  Lisburn,  "  they  would 
let  me  starve  ;  but  by  my  other  labours  I  can  make 
shift  to  eat,  and  drink,  and  have  good  clothes/' 
It  was  in  his  "other  labours"  that  his  poems 
helped  him.  The  booksellers  who  would  not  or 
could  not  remunerate  him  adequately  for  delayed 
production  and  minute  revision,  were  willing 
enough  to  secure  the  sanction  of  his  name  for 
humbler  journey-work.  If  he  was  ill-paid  for  The 
Traveller,  he  was  not  ill-paid  for  the  Beauties  of 
English  Poesy  ox  the  History  of  Animated  Nature. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  his  ready  pen,  and  his  skill 


xviii  I  XT  ROD  UC  TION. 

as  a  compiler,  his  life  was  a  metier  de  forcat. 
"While  you  are  nibbling  about  elegant  phrases,  I 
am  obliged  to  write  half  a  volume," — he  told  his 
friend  Cradock  ;  and  it  was  but  natural  that  he 
should  desire  to  escape  into  walks  where  he  might 
accomplish  something  "for  his  own  hand,"  by 
which,  at  the  same  time,  he  might  exist.  Fiction 
he  had  already  essayed.  Nearly  two  years  before 
The  Traveller  appeared,  he  had  written  a  story 
about  the  length  of  Joseph  Andrews,  for  which  he 
had  received  little  more  than  a  third  of  the  sum 
paid  by  Andrew  Millar  to  Fielding  for  his  burlesque 
of  Richardson's  Pamela.  But  obscure  circum- 
stances delayed  the  publication  of  the  Vic  r  of 
Wakefield  for  four  years,  and  when  at  last  it  was 
issued,  its  first  burst  of  success — a  success,  as  far 
as  can  be  ascertained,  productive  of  no  further 
profit  to  its  author— was  followed  by  a  long  period 
during  which  the  sales  were  languid  and  uncertain. 
There  remained  the  stage,  with  its  two-fold  allure- 
ment of  fame  and  fortune,  both  payable  at  sight, 
added  to  which  it  was  always  possible  that  a 
popular  play,  in  those  days  when  plays  were 
bought  to  read,  might  find  a  brisk  market  in  book 
form.  The  prospect  was  a  tempting  one,  and  it 
is  scarcely  surprising  that  Goldsmith,  weary  of 
the  "dry  drudgery  at  the  desk's  dead  wood,"  and 
conscious  of  better  things  within  him,  should  en- 
gage in  that  most  tantalizing  of  all  enterprises,  the 
pursuit  of  dramatic  success. 

For  acting  and  actors  he  had  always  shown  a 
decided  partiality.1     Vague  stories,  based,  in  all 

I  This  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  splenetic  utterances  ia 


INTRODUCTION'.  xix 

probability,  upon  the  references  to  strolling  players 
in  his  writings,  hinted  that  he  himself  had  once 
worn  the  comic  sock  as   "Scrub"  in  The  Beaux' 
Stratagem ;    and   it    is   clear    that   soon   after   he 
arrived  in  England,  he  had  completed  a  tragedy, 
for  he  read  it  in  manuscript  to  a  friend.      That  he 
had  been  besides  an  acute  and  observant  playgoer, 
is  plain  from  his  excellent  account  in   The  Bee  of 
Mademoiselle    Clairon,    whom    he    had    seen    at 
Paris,    and   from  his  sensible  notes  in   the   same 
periodical  on   "  gestic  lore  "  as  exhibited  on  the 
English  stage.     In  his  Polite  Learning  in  Europe, 
he  had  followed  up  Ralph's   Case  of  Authors  by 
Profession,  by  protesting  against  the  despotism  of 
managers,  and  the  unenlightened  but  economical 
policy  of  producing  only  the  works  of  deceased 
playwrights  ;  and  he  was  equally  opposed  to  the 
growing  tendency  on  the  part  of  the  public — a  ten- 
dency dating  from   Richardson   and  the  French 
comedie  larmoyante — to  substitute  sham  sensibility 
and   superficial  refinement  for  that  humorous  de- 
lineation of  manners,  which,  with  all  their  errors 
of  morality  and  taste,   had  been  the  chief  aim  of 
Congreve  and  his  contemporaries.     To   the   fact 
that  what  was  now  known  as  "genteel  comedy" 
had  almost  wholly  supplanted  this  elder  and  better 

the  letters  to  Daniel  Hodson,  first  made  public  in  the  "  Great 
Writers"  Life  of  Goldsmith,  where  he  speaks  of  the  stage 
as  "  an  abominable  resource  which  neither  became  a  man 
of  honour,  nor  a  man  of  sense."  Those  letters  were  written 
when  the  production  of  The  Good-Naturd  Man  had  supplied 
him  with  abundant  practical  evidence  of  the  vexations  and 
difficulties  of  theatrical  ambition,. 


xx  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

manner,  must  be  attributed  his  deferred  entry  upon 
a  field  so  obviously  adapted  to  his  gifts.  But 
when,  in  1766,  the  Clandestine  Marriage  ofGarrick 
and  Colman,  with  its  evergreen  "Lord  Ogleby," 
seemed  to  herald  a  return  to  the  side  of  laughter 
as  opposed  to  that  of  tears,  he  took  heart  of  grace, 
and,  calling  to  mind  something  of  the  old  incon- 
siderate benevolence  which  had  been  the  Gold- 
smith family-failing,  set  about  his  first  comedy, 
The  Good-Nat ur\i  Man. 

Even  without  experiment,  no  one  could  have 
known  better  than  Goldsmith,  upon  what  a  sea  of 
troubles  he  had  embarked.  Those  obstacles  which, 
more  than  thirty  years  before,  had  been  so  graphi- 
cally described  in  Fielding's  Pasquin, — which 
Goldsmith  himself  had  indicated  with  equal  accu- 
racy in  his  earliest  book,  still  lay  in  the  way  of  all 
dramatic  purpose,  and  he  was  to  avoid  none  of 
them.  When  he  submitted  his  completed  work 
to  Garrick,  the  all-powerful  actor,  who  liked 
neither  piece  nor  author,  blew  hot  and  cold  so 
long,  that  Goldsmith  at  last,  in  despair,  transferred 
it  to  Colman.  But,  as  if  fate  was  inexorable, 
Colman,  after  accepting  it  effusively,  also  grew 
dilatory,  and  ultimately  entered  into  a  tacit  league 
with  Garrick  not  to  produce  it  at  Covent  Garden 
until  his  former  rival  had  brought  out  at  Drury 
Lane  a  comedy  by  Goldsmith's  countryman,  Hugh 
Kelly,  a  sentimentalist  of  the  first  water.  Upon 
the  heels  of  the  enthusiastic  reception  which 
Garrick's  administrative  tact  secured  for  the 
superfine  imbroglios  of  False  Delicacy,  came  limp- 
ing  The  Good-Naiurd  Man  of  Goldsmith,  wet. 


INTRODUCTION.  xxi 

blanketed  beforehand  by  a  sententious  prologue 
from  Johnson.  No  debilt  could  have  been  less 
favourable.  Until  it  was  finally  saved  in  the 
fourth  act  by  the  excellent  art  of  Shuter,  its  fate 
hung  trembling  in  the  balance,  and  even  then  one 
of  its  scenes — not  afterwards  reckoned  the  worst 
— had  to  be  withdrawn  in  deference  to  the  delicate 
scruples  of  an  audience  which  could  not  suffer 
such  inferior  beings  as  bailiffs  to  come  between 
the  wind  and  its  gentility.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all 
these  disadvantages,  The  GooJ-Naturd  Man 
obtained  a  hearing,  besides  bringing  its  author 
about  five  hundred  pounds,  a  sum  far  larger  than 
anything  he  had  ever  made  by  poetry  or  fiction. 

That  the  superior  success  of  False  Delicacy,  with 
its  mincing  morality  and  jumble  of  inadequate 
motive,  was  wholly  temporary  and  accidental,  is 
evident  from  the  fact  that,  to  use  a  felicitous  phrase, 
it  has  now  to  be  disinterred  in  order  to  be  dis- 
cussed. But,  notwithstanding  one's  instinctive 
sympathy  for  Goldsmith  in  his  struggles  with  the 
managers,  it  is  not  equally  clear  that,  everything 
considered,  The  Good-Nat 'ur\l  Matt  was  unfairly 
treated  by  the  public.  Because  Kelly's  play  was 
praised  too  much,  it  by  no  means  follows  that 
Goldsmith's  play  was  praised  too  little.  With  all 
the  advantage  of  its  author's  reputation,  it  has 
never  since  passed  into  the  repertoire,  and,  if  it 
had  something  of  the  freshness  of  a  first  effort,  it 
had  also  its  inexperience.  The  chief  character, 
Honey  wood  —  the  weak  and  amiable  "  good- 
natur'd  man" — never  stands  very  firmly  on  his 
feet,  and  the  first  actor,  Garrick's  promising  young 


xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

rival,  Powell,  failed,  or  disdained  to  make  it  a 
stage  creation.  On  the  other  hand,  "Croaker," 
an  admitted  elaboration  of  Johnson's  sketch  of 
"  Suspirius  "  in  the  Rambler,  is  a  first-rate  comic 
character,  and  the  charlatan  "Lofty,"  a  sort  of 
"Beau-Tibbs-above-Stairs,"  is  almost  as  good. 
But,  as  Garrick's  keen  eye  saw,  to  have  a  second 
male  figure  of  greater  importance  than  the  central 
personage  was  a  serious  error  of  judgment,  added 
to  which  neither  "Miss  Richland"  nor  "Mrs. 
Croaker "  ever  establish  any  hold  upon  the 
audience.  Last  of  all,  the  plot,  such  as  it  is, 
cannot  be  described  as  either  particularly  in- 
genious or  particularly  novel.  In  another  way, 
the  merit  of  the  piece  is,  however,  incontestable. 
It  is  written  with  all  the  perspicuous  grace  of 
Goldsmith's  easy  pen,  and,  in  the  absence  of 
stage-craft,  sparkles  with  neat  and  effective  epi- 
grams. One  of  these  may  be  mentioned  as  illus- 
trating the  writer's  curious  (perhaps  unconscious) 
habit  of  repeating  ideas  which  had  pleased  him. 
lie  had  quoted  in  his  Polite  Learning  the  exqui- 
sitely rhythmical  close  of  Sir  William  Temple's 
prose  essay  on  "Poetry,"  and  in  The  Bee  it  still 
seems  to  haunt  him.  In  Tlie  G ood- Natter1  d  Alan 
he  has  absorbed  it  altogether,  for  he  places  it, 
without  inverted  commas,  in  the  lips  of  Croaker. 

But,  if  its  lack  of  constructive  power  and  its 
errors  of  conception  make  it  impossible  to  regard 
The  Good-Nalur'd  Man  as  a  substantial  gain  to 
humorous  drama,  it  was  undoubtedly  a  formid- 
able attack  upon  that  "  mawkish  drab  of  spurious 
tuccd,"  Sentimental  Comedy,  and  its  success  was 


INTRODUCTION.  xxiii 

amply  sufficient  to  justify  a  second  trial.  That 
Goldsmith  did  not  forthwith  make  this  renewed 
effort  must  be  attributed  partly  to  the  recollection 
of  his  difficulties  in  getting  his  first  play  produced, 
partly  to  the  fact  that,  his  dramatic  gains  ex- 
hausted, he  was  almost  immediately  involved  in  a 
sequence  of  laborious  taskwork.  Still,  he  had 
never  abandoned  his  ambition  to  restore  humour 
and  character  to  the  stage  ;  and  as  time  went  on, 
the  sense  of  his  past  discouragements  grew  fainter, 
while  the  success  of  The  Deserted  Village  increased 
his  importance  as  an  author.  Sentimentalism,  in 
the  meantime,  had  still  a  majority.  Kelly,  it  is 
true,  was  now  no  longer  to  be  feared.  His  sudden 
good  fortune  had  swept  him  into  the  ranks  of  the 
party-writers,  with  the  result  that  the  damning  of 
his  next  play,  A  Word  to  the  Wise,  had  been 
exaggerated  into  a  political  necessity.  But  the 
school  which  he  represented  had  been  recruited  by 
a  much  abler  man,  Richard  Cumberland,  and  it 
was  probably  the  favourable  reception  of  Cumber- 
land's West  Indian  that  stimulated  Goldsmith 
into  striking  one  more  blow  for  legitimate  comedy. 
At  all  events,  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  in  which 
The  West  Indian  was  produced,  he  is  hard  at 
work  in  the  lanes  at  Hendon  and  Edgwarc, 
"studying  jests  with  a  most  tragical  countenance" 
for  a  successor  to  The  Good-JVaturd  Man. 

To  the  modern  spectator  of  She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer, with  its  unflagging  humour  and  bustling 
action,  it  must  seem  almost  inconceivable  that  its 
stage  qualities  can  ever  have  been  questioned.  Yet 
questioned  they  undoubtedly  were,  and  Goldsmith, 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION. 

was  spared  none  of  his  former  humiliations.  Even 
from  the  outset,  all  was  against  him.  His  dif- 
ferences with  Garrick  had  long  been  adjusted, 
and  the  Drury  Lane  manager  would  now  probably 
have  accepted  a  new  play  from  his  pen,  especially 
as  that  astute  observer  had  already  detected  signs 
of  a  reaction  in  the  public  taste.  But  Goldsmith 
was  morally  bound  to  Colman  and  Covent 
Garden ;  and  Colman,  in  whose  hands  he  placed 
his  manuscript,  proved  even  more  disheartening 
and  unmanageable  than  Garrick  had  been  in  the 
past.  Before  he  had  come  to  his  decision,  the 
close  of  1772  had  arrived.  Early  in  the  following 
year,  under  the  irritation  of  suspense  and  suggested 
amendments  combined,  Goldsmith  hastily  trans- 
ferred his  proposal  to  Garrick  ;  but,  by  Johnson's 
advice,  as  hastily  withdrew  it.  Only  by  the 
express  interposition  of  Johnson  was  Colman  at 
last  induced  to  make  a  distinct  promise  to  bring 
out  the  play  at  a  specific  date.  To  believe  in  it, 
he  could  not  be  persuaded,  and  his  contagious 
anticipations  of  its  failure  passed  insensibly  to  the 
actors,  who,  one  after  the  other,  shuffled  out  of 
their  parts.  Even  over  the  epilogue  there  were 
vexatious  disputes,  and  when  at  last,  in  March, 
1773,  She  Stoops  to  Compter  was  acted,  its  jeime 
premier  had  previously  held  no  more  exalted 
position  than  that  of  ground-harlequin,  while  one 
of  its  most  prominent  characters  had  simply  been 
a  post-boy  in  The  Good-Naltird  Man.  But  once 
fairly  upon  the  boards  neither  lukewarm  actors 
nor  an  adverse  manager  had  any  further  influence 
over  it,  and  the  doubts  of  everyone  vanished  in 


TXTRODUCTION.  xxv 

the  uninterrupted  applause  of  the  audience. 
When,  a  few  days  later,  it  was  printed  with  a 
brief  and  grateful  dedication  to  its  best  friend, 
Johnson,  the  world  already  knew  with  certainty 
that  a  fresh  masterpiece  had  been  added  to  the 
roll  of  English  Dramatic  Literature,  and  that 
"  genteel  comedy  "  had  received  a  decisive  blow. 
The  effect  of  this  blow,  it  must  be  admitted, 
had  been  aided  not  a  little  by  the  appearance, 
only  a  week  or  two  earlier,  of  Foote's  clever 
puppet-show  of  The  Handsome  Housemaid ;  or, 
Piety  in  Pattens,  which  was  openly  directed  at 
Kelly  and  his  following.  But  ridicule  by  itself, 
without  some  sample  of  a  worthier  substitute, 
could  not  have  sufficed  to  displace  a  persistent 
fashion.  This  timely  antidote  She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer, in  the  most  unmistakable  way,  afforded. 
From  end  to  end  of  the  piece  there  is  not  a 
sickly  or  a  maudlin  word.  Even  Sheridan, 
writing  The  Rivals  two  years  later,  thought  it 
politic  to  insert  "  Faulkland  "  and  "Julia"  for 
the  benefit  of  the  sentimentalists.  Goldsmith 
made  no  such  concession,  and  his  wholesome 
hearty  merriment  put  to  flight  the  Comedy  of  Tears, 
— even  as  the  Coquecigrues  vanished  before  the 
large-lunged  laugh  of  Pantagruel.  If,  as  Johnson 
feared,  his  plot  bordered  slightly  upon  farce — - 
and  of  what  good  comedy  may  this  not  be  said  ? — 
at  least  it  can  be  urged  that  its  most  farcical  in- 
cident, the  mistaking  of  a  gentleman's  house  for  an 
inn,  had  really  happened,  since  it  had  happened  to 
the  writer  himself.  But  the  superfine  objections 
of    Walpole    and    his    friends   are   now   ancient 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION. 

history, — history  so  ancient  that  it  is  scarcely 
credited,  while  Goldsmith's  manly  assertion  (after 
Fielding)  of  the  author's  right  "to  stoop  among 
the  low  to  copy  nature,"  has  been  ratified  by 
successive  generations  of  novelists  and  play- 
wrights. What  is  beyond  dispute  is  the  healthy 
atmosphere,  the  skilful  setting,  the  lasting  fresh- 
ness and  fidelity  to  human  nature  of  the  persons  of 
his  drama.  Not  content  with  the  finished  portraits 
of  the  Hardcastles  (a  Vicar  and  Mrs.  Primrose 
promoted  to  the  squirearchy), — not  content  with  the 
incomparable  and  unapproachable  Tony,  the  author 
has  managed  to  make  attractive  what  is  too  often 
insipid,  his  heroines  and  their  lovers.  Miss 
Ilardcastle  and  Miss  Neville  are  not  only  charm- 
ing young  women,  but  charming  characters,  while 
Marlow  and  Hastings  are  much  more  than  stage 
young  men.  And  let  it  be  remembered  —  it 
cannot  be  too  often  remembered  —  that  in  re- 
turning to  those  Farquhars  and  Vanbrughs  "of 
the  last  age,"  who  differed  so  widely  from  the 
Kellys  and  Cumberlands  of  his  own,  Gold- 
smith has  brought  back  no  taint  of  their  baser 
part.  Depending  solely  for  its  avowed  inten- 
tion to  "  make  an  audience  merry,"  upon  the 
simple  development  of  its  humorous  incident, 
his  play  (wonderful  to  relate  !)  attains  its  end 
without  resorting  to  impure  suggestion  or  equi- 
vocal intrigue.  Indeed,  there  is  but  one  married 
woman  in  the  piece,  and  she  traverses  it  without 
a  stain  upon  her  character. 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer  is  Goldsmith's  last 
dramatic  work,  for  the  trifling  sketch  of  The 
Grumbler  had  never  more  than  a  grateful  purpose. 


INTK  ODUC  TION.  xxvii 

When,  only  a  year  later,  the  little  funeral  pro- 
cession from  2,  Brick  Court  laid  him  in  his  un- 
known grave  in  the  Temple  burying-ground,  the 
new  comedy  of  which  he  had  written  so  hopefully 
to  Garrick  was  still  non-existent.  Would  it  have 
been  better  than  its  last  fortunate  predecessor  ?— 
would  those  early  reserves  of  memory  and  ex- 
perience have  still  proved  inexhaustible  ?  The 
question  cannot  be  answered.  Through  debt, 
and  drudgery,  and  depression,  the  writer's  genius 
had  still  advanced,  and  these  might  yet  have 
proved  powerless  to  check  his  progress.  But  at 
least  it  was  given  to  him  to  end  upon  his  best, 
and  not  to  outlive  it.  For,  in  that  critical  sense 
which  estimates  the  value  of  a  work  by  its  ex- 
cellence at  all  points,  it  can  scarcely  be  contested 
that  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  is  his  best  production. 
In  spite  of  their  beauty  and  humanity,  the  lasting 
quality  of  The  Traveller  and  The  Deserted  I  'illage 
is  seriously  prejudiced  by  his  half-way  attitude 
between  the  poetry  of  convention  and  the  poetry 
of  nature — between  the  gradus  epithet  of  Pope 
and  the  direct  vocabulary  of  Wordsworth.  With 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  again,  immortal  though  it 
be,  it  is  less  his  art  that  holds  us,  than  his  charm, 
his  humour  and  his  tenderness  which  tempt  us  to 
forget  his  inconsistency  and  his  errors  of  haste.  In 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  neither  defect  of  art  nor 
defect  of  nature  forbid  us  to  give  unqualified 
admiration  to  a  work  which  lapse  of  time  has 
shown  to  be  still  unrivalled  in  its  kind. 

Austin  Dodson. 
Ealing,  W. 

February,  1SS9. 


THE   TRAVELLER; 

OR, 

A  PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETY. 

A  POEM. 


^Qffj^ 


[The  Traveller,  or  a  Prospect  of  Society.  A  Poem. 
Inscribed  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Henry  Goldsmith.  By  Oliver 
Goldsmith,  M.B.— was  first  published  by  John  Newbery 
of  St.  Paul's  Church-yard,  in  a  4to.  of  thirty  pages,  on  the 
19th  December,  1764.  The  title-page  of  the  book  (as  given 
above)  was  dated  1765,  and  the  price  was  is.  6d.  Up  to  the 
sixth  edition  of  1770  numerous  alterations  were  made  in  the 
text  by  the  author.  The  poem  is  here  reprinted  from  the 
ninth  edition  issued  in  1774,  the  year  of  Goldsmith's  death.] 


DEDICATION. 

TO    THE    REV.    HENRY    GOLDSMITH.1 

Dear  Sir, 

AM  sensible  that  the  friendship  between 
us  can  acquire  no  new  force  from  the 
ceremonies  of  a  Dedication  ;  and  per- 
haps it  demands  an  excuse  thus  to  prefix 
your  name  to  my  attempts,  which  you  decline  giv- 
ing with  your  own.  But  as  a  part  of  this  Poem 
was  formerly  written  to  you  from  Switzerland,  the 
whole  can  now,  with  propriety,  be  only  inscribed 
to  you.  It  will  also  throw  a  light  upon  many  parts 
of  it,  when  the  reader  understands,  that  it  is  ad- 
dressed to  a  man,  who,  despising  Fame  and  For- 
tune, has  retired  early  to  Happiness  and  Obscurity, 
with  an  income  of  forty  pounds  a  year. 

I  now  perceive,  my  dear  brother,  the  wisdom  of 
your  humble  choice.  You  have  entered  upon  a 
sacred  office,  where  the  harvest  is  great,  and  the 
labourers  are  but  few  ;    while   you  have  left  the 


P  Goldsmith's  eldest  brother.     lie    died    in    May,   1768, 
being  then  curate  of  Kilkenny  West.] 


4  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

field  of  Ambition,  where  the  labourers  are  many, 
and  the  harvest  not  worth  carrying  away.  But  of 
all  kinds  of  ambition,  what  from  the  refinement  of 
the  times,  from  different  systems  of  criticism,  and 
from  the  divisions  of  party,  that  which  pursues 
poetical  fame  is  the  wildest. 

Poetry  makes  a  principal  amusement  among 
unpolished  nations ;  but  in  a  country  verging  to 
the  extremes  of  refinement,  Painting  and  Music 
come  in  for  a  share.  As  these  offer  the  feeble 
mind  a  less  laborious  entertainment,  they  at  first 
rival  Poetry,  and  at  length  supplant  her ;  they  en- 
gross all  that  favour  once  shown  to  her,  and  though 
but  younger  sisters,  seize  upon  the  elder's  birth- 
right. 

Yet,  however  this  art  may  be  neglected  by  the 
powerful,  it  is  still  in  greater  danger  from  the  mis- 
taken efforts  of  the  learned  to  improve  it.  What 
criticisms  have  we  not  heard  of  late  in  favour  of 
blank  verse,  and  Pindaric  odes,  choruses,  ana- 
pests  and  iambics,  alliterative  care  and  happy 
negligence  !  Every  absurdity  has  now  a  cham- 
pion to  defend  it ;  and  as  he  is  generally  much  in 
the  wrong,  so  he  has  always  much  to  say ;  for 
error  is  ever  talkative. 

But  there  is  an  enemy  to  this  art  still  more  dan- 
gerous, I  mean  Party.  Party  entirely  distorts  the 
judgment,  and  destroys  the  taste.  When  the  mind 
is  once  infected  with  this  disease,  it  can  only  find 
pleasure  in  what  contributes  to  increase  the  dis- 
temper. Like  the  tiger,  that  seldom  desists  from 
pursuing  man  after  having  once  preyed  upon  human 
flesh,  the  reader,  who  has  once  gratified  his  appe- 


DEDICA  TION.  S 

tite  with  calumny,  makes,  ever  after,  the  most 
agreeable  feast  upon  murdered  reputation.  Such 
readers  generally  admire  some  half-witted  thing, 
who  wants  to  be  thought  a  bold  man,  having  lost 
the  character  of  a  wise  one.  Him  they  dignify 
with  the  name  of  poet ;  his  tawdry  lampoons  arc 
called  satires,  his  turbulence  is  said  to  be  force,  and 
his  phrenzy  fire.1 

What  reception  a  Poem  may  find,  which  has 
neither  abuse,  party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support 
it,  I  cannot  tell,  nor  am  I  solicitous  to  know.  My 
aims  are  right.  Without  espousing  the  cause  of 
any  party,  I  have  attempted  to  moderate  the  rage 
of  all.  I  have  endeavoured  to  show,  that  there 
may  be  equal  happiness  in  states,  that  are  dif- 
ferently governed  from  our  own  ;  that  every  state 
has  a  particular  principle  of  happiness,  and  that 
this  principle  in  each  may  be  carried  to  a  mis- 
chievous excess.  There  are  few  can  judge,  better 
than  yourself,  how  far  these  positions  are  illustrated 
in  this  Poem. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 
Your  most  affectionate  Brother, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

[1  Charles  Churchill,  the  satirist  (1731-64),  is  undoubtedly 
intended  here.] 


THE   TRAVELLER; 

OR, 
A   PROSPECT   OF   SOCIETY. 


EMOTE,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheldt,  or  wandering 

Po; 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian 
boor, 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door  ; 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies  : 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravell'd  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 
Still  to  my  Brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain.1 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend  : 
Bless'd  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  ev'ning  fire  ; 
Bless'd  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 

[l  Cf.  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  1762,  i.  5.     (Letter  iii.)] 


8.  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair  ; 

Bless'd  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown'd, 

Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 

Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 

Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale, 

Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 

And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destin'd  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wand'ring  spent  and  care, 
Impell'd,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view  ; 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies  ; ' 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

Even  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And,  plac'd  on  high  above  the  storm's  career, 
Look  downward  where  an  hundred  realms  appear  ; 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains,  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 

When  thus  Creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store,  should  thankless  pride  repine  ? 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good,  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vain  ? 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man  ; 
And  wiser  he,  whose  sympathetic  mind 

['  Cf.  The  Vicar  of  Wakeful  J,  1766,  ii.  160-1  (ch.  x).] 


'    THE    TRAVELLER.  9 

Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 

Ye  glitt'ring   towns,   with  wealth  and  splendour 

crown'd, 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round, 
Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale, 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flow'ry  vale, 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine  ; 
Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine  ! 

As  some  lone  miser  visiting  his  store, 

Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  re-counts  it  o'er  ; 

Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 

Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still : 

Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 

Pleas'd  with  each  good  that  heaven  to  man  supplies  : 

Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 

To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small ; 

And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene,  to  find 

Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consign'd, 

Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wand'ring  hope  at  rest, 

May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  bless'd. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below, 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 
The  shudd'ring  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own, 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease  ; 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  Gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave, 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 


io  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

His  first,  best  country  ever  is,  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind, 
As  different  good,  by  Art  or  Nature  given, 
To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even. 

Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 
Still  grants  her  bliss  at  Labour's  earnest  call ; 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idra's x  cliffs  as  Arno's  shelvy  side  ; 
And  though  the  rocky-crested  summits  frown, 
These  rocks,  by  custom,  turn  to  beds  of  down. 
From  Art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent  ; 
Wealth,  commerce,  honour,  liberty,  content. 
Yet  these  each  other's  power  so  strong  contest, 
That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest. 
Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign  contentment  fails, 
And  honour  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 
Hence  every  state  to  one  lov'd  blessing  prone, 
Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone. 
Each  to  the  favourite  happiness  attends, 
And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends  ; 
Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 
This  favourite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyes, 
And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies : 
Here  for  a  while  my  proper  cares  resign'd, 

[l  Bolton    Corney  thought   Idria   in  Carniola   intended 
Birkbeck  Hill  suggests  Lake  Idro  in  North  Italy  which  has 
rocky  shores.] 


THE   TRAVELLER.  n 

Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind, 
Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  random  cast, 
That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blast. 

Far  to  the  right  where  Apennine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends  ; 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride  ; 
While  oft  some  temple's  mould'ring  tops  between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  Nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  were  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground  ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 
Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year ; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives  that  blossom  but  to  die  ; 
These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil ; 
While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign, 
Though  poor,  luxurious,  though  submissive,  vain, 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling,  zealous,  yet  untrue  ; 
And  e'en  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind, 


12  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 

For  wealth  was  theirs,  not  far  remov'd  the  date, 

When   commerce  proudly  flourish'd  through  the 

state  ; 
At  her  command  the  palace  learn 'd  to  rise, 
Again  the  long-fall'n  column  sought  the  skies  ; 
The  canvas  glow'd  beyond  e'en  Nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teem'd  with  human  form  ; 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  display'd  her  sail ; 
While  nought  remain'd  of  all  that  riches  gave, 
But  towns  unmann'd,  and  lords  without  a  slave  ; 
And  late  the  nation  found  with  fruitless  skill 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill.1 

Yet  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride  ; 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fall'n  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array'd, 
The  paste-board  triumph  and  the  cavalcade ; 
Processions  form'd  for  piety  and  love, 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 
By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguil'd, 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child  ; 2 
Each  nobler  aim,  represt  by  long  control, 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 
While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind  : 
As  in  those  domes,  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway, 

[1  Cf.  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  17C2,  i.  98.   (Letter  xxv.)] 
[2  A  pretty  anecdote  a-propos  of  this  couplet  is  told  in 
Foster's  Life,  1871,  i.  pp.  347-8-] 


THE    TRAVELLER.  13 

Defac'd  by  time  and  tottering  in  decay, 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead, 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed, 
And,  wond'ring  man  could  want  the  larger  pile, 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 

My  soul,  turn  from  them,  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display, 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormymansions  tread, 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread  ; 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword. 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array, 
But  winter  ling'ring  chills  the  lap  of  May  ; 
No  Zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast. 
But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest. 

Yet  still,  even  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 
Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feasts  though 

small, 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed  ; 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal, 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal  ; 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  ignorance  and  toil, 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 
Cheerful  at  morn  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breasts  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes  ; 
With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep, 
Or  drives  his  venturous  ploughshare  to  the  steep  ; 
Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way, 


i4  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

And  drags  the  struggling  savage  '  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped, 
I  le  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed  ; 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze  ; 
While  his  lov'd  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board  : 
And  hrply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 
With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart, 
And  even  those  ills,  that  round  his  mansion  rise, 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms, 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms  ; 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast, 
So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assign'd  ; 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confin'd. 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few  ; 
For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest. 
Whence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science  flies, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies  ; 
Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 

[1  i.e.  wolf  or  bear.     Pope  uses  the  word  several  times  in 
this  sense.] 


THE    TRAVELLER. 


IS 


To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy  ; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame, 
Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame. 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  smould'ring  fire, 
Unquench'd  by  want,  unfann'd  by  strong  desire  ; 
Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year, 
In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire, 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow  : 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low, 
For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unalter'd,  unimprov'd,  the  manners  run  ; 
And  love's  and  friendship's  finely-pointed  dart 
Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 
Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 
May  sit,  like  falcons  cow'ring  on  the  nest  ; 
But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 
Through  life's  more  cultur'd  walks  and  charm  the 

way, 
These  far  dispers'd,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 
To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn  ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleas'd  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please, 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire  P1 

['  i.e.  in  his  pedestrian  travels  on  the  continent  in  1755  6 
Cf.  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  i7C6,  ii.,  24-5  (ch.  i).] 


i6  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshen' d  from  the  wave  the  Zephyr  flew ; 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch  faltering  still, 
But  mock'd  all  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dancer's  skill ; 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noon-tide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages.     Dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill'd  in  gestic  lore,1 
lias  frisk'd  beneath  the  burthen  of  threescore. 

So  bless'd  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display, 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away  : 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here  : 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  even  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand, 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land  : 
From  courts,  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays, 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise  ; 
They  please,  are  pleas'd,  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  bless'd,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise  ; 
For  praise  too  dearly  lov'd,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought ; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 

]}  i.e.  traditional  gestures  or  action.] 


THE   TRAVELLER.  i7 

Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace  ; 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year  ; 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws, 
Nor -weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self- applause. 

.  To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom'd  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 
And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm-connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow  ; 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  wat'ry  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore. 
While  the  pent  ocean  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile  ; 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossom'd  vale, 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescu'd  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 
And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 
Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 
With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 
Are   here  displayed.       Their    much-lov'd   wealth 
imparts 

c 


1 3  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts  ; 
But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear, 
Even  liberty  itself  is  barter'd  here. 
At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 
The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys  ; 
A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves,1 
Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves,2 
And  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 
Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens  !  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old  ! 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold  ; 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow  ; 
How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now  ! 

Fir'd  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring  ; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  brighter  streams  than  fam'd  Hydaspes 3  glide. 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray, 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray  ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combin'd, 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind  ! 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  state, 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great, 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by, 
Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashion'd,  fresh  from  Nature's  hand  ; 

['  This  line  occurs  as  prose  in  The  Citizen  of  the  World, 
1762,  i.,  147.      (Letter  xxxiv. )] 
P  Julius  Cersar,  Act  i.,  Sc.  2.] 
[3  Fabulosus  Hydaspes,  Hor.  Bk.  i.,  Ode  22.] 


THE   TRAVELLER.  15 

Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 

True  to  imagin'd  right,  above  control, 

While  even  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 

And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,   Freedom,    thine   the  blessings   pictur'd 
here, 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear  ; 
Too  bless'd,  indeed,  were  such  without  alloy, 
But  foster'd  even  by  Freedom  ills  annoy  : 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high, 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie ; 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone, 
All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknow  n  ; 
Here  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell'd. 
Ferments  arise,  imprison'd  factions  roar, 
Repress'd  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore 
Till  over-wrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motions  stop,  or  phrenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.  As  nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honour  fail  to  sway, 
Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  these  alone, 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown  ; 
Till   time   may  come,  when   stripp'd   of  all   her 

charms, 
The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms, 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame, 
Where   kings  have   toil'd,    and   poets  wrote   for 

fame, 


2o  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 

And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonour'd  die. 


Yet  think  not,  thus  when  Freedom's  ills  I  stale, 
I  mean  to  natter  kings,  or  court  the  great ; 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire  ; 
And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage,  and  tyrant's  angry  steel  ; 
Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 
By  proud  contempt,  or  favour's  fostering  sun, 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure, 
I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure  : 
For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 
That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  that  toil ; 
And  all  that  freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach, 
Is  but  to  lay  proportion'd  loads  on  each. 
Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion'd  grow, 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

O  then  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires, 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires  ! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 
Except  when  fast-approaching  danger  warms  : 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne, 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own,1 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free  ; 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law  ;  '-' 

t1  Cf.  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  1766,  i.,  202  (ch.  xix).] 
[-  Ibid,  i.,  206  (ch.  xix).] 


THE   TRAVELLER.  21 

The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 

Pillag'd  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home  ; 

Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation  start, 

Tear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart ; 

Till  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 

I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne.1 

Yes,  brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour, 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power ; 
And  thus  polluting  honour  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled  shore,'2 
Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore? 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste, 
Like  flaring  tapers  brightening  as  they  waste  ; 
Seen  opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain, 
Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train, 
And  over  fields  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
In  barren  solitary  pomp  repose  ? 
Have  we  not  seen  at  pleasure's  lordly  call, 
The  smiling  long- frequented  village  fall  ? 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay'd, 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 
Forc'd  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train, 
To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thund'ring  sound  ? 

Even  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim  strays 

f1  Cf.  The  Vicar  of 'Wakefield,  1766,  i.,  201  (ch.  xix).] 
[-  This  and  the  lines  that  follow  contain  the  germ  of  The 
Deserted  Village.} 


22  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Through   tangled  forests,  and  through  dangerous 

ways  ; 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim, 
And   the   brown  Indian   marks   with    murderous 

aim  ; 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise, 
The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  woe, 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go,1 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine, 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathise  with  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind  : 
Why  have  I  stray 'd  from  pleasure  and  repose, 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ? 
In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings,  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure,2 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure. 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign'd, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find  : 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonising  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,3  and  Damiens'  bed  of  steel,4 

[l  Johnson  contributed  this  line.  (Birkbeck  Hill's  Boszveli, 
1887,  ii.  6.)] 

[2  Johnson  wrote  these  last  lines,  the  penultimate  couplet 
excepted.    (Boswell,  ut  supra.)\ 

[3  George  (not  Luke)  Dosa,  an  Hungarian  patriot,  suffered 
in  1514  the  penalty  of  the  red-hot  iron  crown.] 

[*  Damiens  was  executed  after  horrible  tortures  for  an 


THE   TRAVELLER. 


23 


To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  our  own. 

attempt  to  assassinate  Louis  XV.  When  in  the  Conciergerie 
he  was  chained  to  an  iron  bed.  (Smollett's  History  of 
England,  1S23,  bk.  iii.,  ch.  7,  §  xxv).] 


THE    DESERTED   VILLAGE, 

A    POEM. 


r 


[The  Deserted  Village,  a  Poem.  By  Dr.  Goldsmith, 
■ — was  published  by  W.  Griffin,  at  Garrick's  Head,  in 
Catherine-street,  Strand,  in  a  4to.  of  thirty  two  pages,  on 
the  26th  May,  1770.  Theprice  was  two  shillings.  It  is  here 
reprinted  from  the  fourth  edition,  issued  in  the  same  year 
as  the  first,  but  considerably  revised.] 


DEDICATION. 


TO    SIR   JOSHUA   REYNOLDS. 


Dear  Sir, 

CAN  have  no  expectations  in  an  address 
of  this  kind,  either  to  add  to  your  re- 
putation, or  to  establish  my  own.  You 
can  gain  nothing  from  my  admiration, 
as  I  am  ignorant  of  that  art  in  which  you  are  said 
to  excel ;  and  I  may  lose  much  by  the  severity  of 
your  judgment,  as  few  have  a  juster  taste  in  poetry 
than  you.  Setting  interest  therefore  aside,  to 
which  I  never  paid  much  attention,  I  must  be  in- 
dulged at  present  in  following  my  affections.  The 
only  dedication  I  ever  made  was  to  my  brother, 
because  I  loved  him  better  than  most  other  men. 
He  is  since  dead.1  Permit  me  to  inscribe  this 
Poem  to  you. 

How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versifica- 
tion and  mere  mechanical  parts  of  this  attempt,  I 
don't  pretend  to  enquire  ;  but  I  know  you  will 
object  (and  indeed  several  of  our  best  and  wisest 

[}  See  p.  3,  and  note.] 


23  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

friends  concur  in  the  opinion)  that  the  depopula- 
tion it  deplores  is  no  where  to  be  seen,  and  the 
disorders  it  laments  are  only  to  be  found  in  the 
poet's  own  imagination.  To  this  I  can  scarce 
make  any  other  answer  than  that  I  sincerely  be- 
lieve what  I  have  written  ;  that  I  have  taken  all 
possible  pains,  in  my  country  excursions,  for  these 
four  or  five  years  past,  to  be  certain  of  what  I 
allege  ;  and  that  all  my  views  and  enquiries  have 
led  me  to  believe  those  miseries  real,  which  I  here 
attempt  to  display.  But  this  is  not  the  place  to 
enter  into  an  enquiry,  whether  the  country  be  de- 
populating, or  not ;  the  discussion  would  take  up 
much  room,  and  I  should  prove  myself,  at  best,  an 
indifferent  politician,  to  tire  the  reader  with  a  long 
preface  when  1  want  his  unfatigued  attention  to  a 
long  poem. 

In  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  I 
inveigh  against  the  increase  of  our  luxuries  ;  and 
here  also  I  expect  the  shout  of  modern  politicians 
against  me.  For  twenty  or  thirty  years  past,  it 
has  been  the  fashion  to  consider  luxury  as  one  of 
the  greatest  national  advantages  ;  and  all  the  wis- 
dom of  antiquity  in  that  particular,  as  erroneous. 
Still  however,  I  must  remain  a  professed  ancient 
on  that  head,  and  continue  to  think  those  luxuries 
prejudicial  to  states,  by  which  so  many  vices  are 
introduced,  and  so  many  kingdoms  have  been  un- 
done.1 Indeed  so  much  has  been  poured  out  of 
late  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  that,  merely 

[l  The  increase  of  luxury  was  a  favourite  topic  with  Gold- 
smith. (Cf.  Birkbeck  Hill's  Boswell,  1887,  ii.,  217-8.)] 


DEDICA  TION. 


29 


for  (.lie  sake  of  novelty  and  variety,    one  would 
sometimes  wish  to  be  in  the  right. 
I  am,  Dear  Sir, 
Your  sincere  friend,  and  ardent  admirer, 
Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE   DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


WEET  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the 

plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the 

labouring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay'd  : 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,1  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene ; 
How  often  have  I  paus'd  on  every  charm, 
The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topp'd  the  neighbouring 

hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  ; 
How  often  have  I  bless'd  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free, 

f1  Some  of  the  details  of  the  picture  are  borrowed  from 
Lissoy,  the  little  hamlet  in  Westmeath  where  the  author 
spent  his  younger  days.] 


32  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree  ; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd  ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and   feats  of  strength  went 

round  ; 
And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tir'd, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspir'd  ; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place ; 
The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love, 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  re- 
prove : 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  ;  sports  like 

these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to  please  ; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence 

shed, 
These  were  thy  charms — But  all  these  charms  are 
fled. 


Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain  : 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  chok'd  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way. 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 


THE  DESERTED    VILLAGE. 


33 


The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; L 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers,  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away,  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay  : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man  ; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  requir'd,  but  gave  no  more  : 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health  ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter'd  ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth,  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports   that  grac'd   the   peaceful 

scene, 
Liv'd  in  each  look,  and  brighten'd  all  the  green  ; 

t1  Cf.  Bewick's  Water  Birds,  1847,  p.  49.] 
D 


34  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn  !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks,  and  ruin'd  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elaps'd,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain.1 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose. 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn'd  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 
And,  as  an  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  pass'd, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last.2 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  happy  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these, 

[1  There  is  no  satisfactory  evidence  that  Goldsmith  ever 
revisited  Ireland  after  he  left  it  in  1752.] 
[2  Cf.  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  1762,  ii.,  153.  (Letter  C.)] 


THE  DESERTED   VI LI, ACE.  35 

A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep  ; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  Virtue's  friend  ; 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceiv'd  decay, 
While  Resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  Heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  pass'd  !  ' 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's  close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  ; 
There,  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below  ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 
The  watchdog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whisp'ring 

wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind  ; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 

[1  Under  the  title  of  Resignation,  Reynolds  in  1772  dedi- 
cated a  print  of  an  old  man  to  Goldsmith  as  "  expressing 
the  character  "  sketched  in  this  paragraph.] 


36  POEMS   OF  GOLDSMITH. 

For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring  ; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forc'd  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain.1 

Near   yonder   copse,    where    once   the   garden 
smil'd, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild  ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose.2 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year  ; 3 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'cl,  nor  wished  to  change  his 

place  ; 
Unpractis'd  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour  ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  skill'd  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  reliev'd  their  pain  ; 
The  long  remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

[1  This  has  been  identified  with  Catherine  Geraghty,  a 
familiar  personage  at  Lissoy  in  Goldsmith's  boyhood.] 

[2  The  character  that  follows  is  probably  combined  from 
the  author's  father,  his  brother  Henry,  and  his  uncle 
Contarine,  all  clergymen.1 

[3  See  p.  3.] 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE.  37 

The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away  ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were 

won. 
Pleas'd  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to 

glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 
Careless  their  merits,  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  Virtue's  side  ; 
But  in  his,  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch 'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt,  for  all. 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 
Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  rais^, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 


38  rOEMS   OF  GOLDSMITH. 

The  service  pass'd,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
Even  children  follow'd  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's 

smile. 
I  lis  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  express'd, 
Their  welfare   pleas'd  him,   and  their  cares  dis- 

tress'd ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  Heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds   are 

spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head.1 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school ; 2 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew  ; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laugh'd,  with  counterfeited  glee, 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 

[1  Chaulieu,  Chapelnin,  and  several  "ancients"  have  been 
credited  with  the  suggestion  of  this  simile.  But  perhaps 
Goldsmith  went  no  farther  than  the  character  of  "Philander" 
in  Young's  Complaint  (Night  the  Second,  1742,  p.  42).] 

[2  Some  of  the  traits  of  this  portrait  correspond  with  those 
of  Goldsmith's  master  at  Lissoy,  one  Byrne.] 


THE  DESERTED   VILLAGE.  3g 

Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd  ; 
Yet  he  was  kind  ;  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 
The  village  all  declar'd  how  much  he  knew  ; 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cypher  too  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 
For  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned   length  and  thundering 

sound 
Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  rang'd  around, 
And  still  they  gaz'd,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 


But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
"Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspir'd, 
"Where  grey-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retir'd, 
Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  pro- 
found, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place  ; 
The  white-wash'd  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door ; 
The  chest  contriv'd  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  Led  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day  ; 
The  pictures  plac'd  for  ornament  and  use, 


40  POEMS   OF  GOLDSMITH. 

The  twelve  good  rules,1  the  royal  game  of  goose ;  * 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay  ; 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Rang'd  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours  !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall ! 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart ; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  wood-man's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear  ; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  press'd, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  Nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfin'd : 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 

[l  The  well-known  maxims  "  found  in  the  study  of  King 
Charles  the  First,  of  Blessed  Memory,"  and  common  in 
Goldsmith's  day  as  a  broadside.] 

[2  See  Strutt's  Sports  and  Pastimes,  Bk.  iv.  ch.  2  (xxv).] 


THE  DESERTED    VILLAGE.  41 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array 'd, 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 
And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore  ; 
Hoards,  even  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied  ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds  ; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robb'd  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their 

growth, 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies : 
While  thus  the  land  adorn'd  for  pleasure,  all 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies, 


i2  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes  : 
But  when  those  charms  are  pass'd,  for  charms  arc 

frail, 
When  time  advances  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd, 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 
While,  scourg'd  by  famine,  from  the  smiling  land 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  ; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden,  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah  !  where,  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd, 
lie  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — What  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combin'd 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind; 
To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow  creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade  ; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps 

display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 


THE  DESERTED    VILLAGE.  4t 

The  dome   where   Pleasure   holds   her  midnight 

reign 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  ; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?— Ah,  turn  thine 

eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies.1 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  bless'd, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distress'd  ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn  ; 
Now  lost  to  all ;  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 
And,  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the 

shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest 
train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread  ! 

Ah,  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 

[1  Cf.  The  Bcc,  27  October,  1759  {A  City  Night-Piece).] 


44  POEMS  OP  GOLDSMITH. 

Where  wild  Altama  l  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm 'd  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crown'd, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they  ; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravag'd  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good    Heaven !    what   sorrows    gloom'd    that 

parting  day, 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away  ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  pass'd, 
Hung  round  their  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their 

last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire,  the  first  prepar'd  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe  ; 

f1  Alatamaha,  in  Georgia,  North  America] 


THE  DESERTED    VILLAGE.  45 

But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears. 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  bless'd  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose  ; 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear  ; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  luxury  !  thou  curs'd  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchang'd  are  things  like  these  for  thee  ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 
Kingdoms,  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own  ; 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe  ; 
Till  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done  ; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land  : 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale, 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 


46  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

And  kind  connubial  tenderness,  are  there  ; 
And  piety  with  wishes  plac'd  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame  ; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride  ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so ; 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well  ! 
Farewell,  and  Oh  !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's x  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  -  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  th'  inclement  clime  ; 
Aid  slighted  truth  ;  with  thy  persuasive  strain 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possess'd, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  bless'd  ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  away ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.3 

[1  Tornea,  a  river  falling  into  the  Gulf  of  Bothnia.] 
[2  A  mountain  near  Quito,  South  America.] 
[3  Johnson  wrote  the  last  four  lines.   (Birkbeck   Hill's 
Boszvell,  1887,  ii.  7.)] 


RETALIATION, 

A  POEM. 


[Retaliation:  A  Poem.  By  Dr.  Goldsmith.  Including 
Epitaphs  on  the  Most  Distinguished  Wits  of  this  Metro- 
polis— was  first  published  on  the  18th  or  19th  April,  1774, 
as  a  4to.  of  twenty-four  pages,  by  G.  Kearsly  of  No.  46,  Fleet 
Street.  Under  the  title  was  a  vignette-head  of  Goldsmith 
etched  by  Basire  after  Reynolds.  To  the  second  edition, 
which  followed  almost  immediately,  and  the  text  of  which  is 
here  printed,  were  added  four  pages  of  "  Explanatory  Notes, 
Observations,  etc." 

The  poem  originated  in  a  contest  of  epitaphs  which  took 
place  after  a  club  dinner  at  the  St.  James's  coffee  house. 
Garrick  led  off  with  his  well-known  impromptu: — 

"  Here  lies  Nolly  Goldsmith,  for  shortness  called  Noll, 
Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talk'd  like  poor  Poll," 

and  several  more  were  written  by  the  company.  Goldsmith 
reserved  his  "  retaliation,"  and  shortly  afterwards  set  about 
the  annexed  poem,  left  incomplete  at  his  death.] 


RETALIATION. 

A   TOEM. 

F  old,  when  Scarron1  his  companions 
invited, 
Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the 
feast  was  united  ; 
If  our  landlord  supplies  us  with  beef,  and  with  fish, 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself,  and  he  brings  the 

best  dish  : 
Our  Dean  2  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the 

plains ; 
Our   Burke  3  shall  be  tongue,   with  a  garnish  of 

brains  ; 
Our  Will4  shall  be  wild-fowl,  of  excellent  flavour, 
And  Dick 5  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  their 
savour  : 


[l  Paul  Scarron  (1610-60),  author  of  the  Roman  Comique, 
to   whose   picnic   dinners   " chacun   aj>portait   son  plat. 
(CEuzires,  1877,  i.,  viii.)] 

[2  Thomas  Barnard,  Dean  of  Derry,  d.  1806.] 

[3  Edmund  Burke,  1729-97.] 

[4  William  Burke  (his  relation),  d.  1798.] 

[5  Richard  Burke  (Edmund  Burke's  brother),  d.  1794.] 
E 


50  POEMS   OF   GOLDSMITH. 

Our  Cumberland's x   sweet-bread   its  place  shall 

obtain, 
And  Douglas  2  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain  : 
Our  Garrick's 3  a  salad  ;  for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree  : 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am, 
That  Ridge  4  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds 5  is  lamb  ; 
That  Hickey's 6  a  capon,  and  by  the  same  rule, 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 
At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 
Here,  waiter  !  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  I'm  able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table  ; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead. 

Here  lies  the  good  Dean,  re-united  to  earth, 
Who  mix'd  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with 

mirth  : 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt, 
At  least,  in  six  weeks,  I  could  not  find  'em  out  ; 
Yet  some  have  declar'd,  and  it  can't  be  denied  'em, 
That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em- 
Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was 
such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  much  ; 

[1  Richard  Cumberland  the  dramatist,  1732-1811.] 

[2  Dr.  Douglas,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Salisbury,  d.  1807.] 

[3  David  Garrick,  the  actor,  1716-79.] 

[4  John  Ridge,  an  Irish  Barrister.] 

[5  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  1723-92.] 

L6  Joseph  Hickey,  d.  1794,  the  legal  adviser  of  Reynolds.] 


RETALIATION.  51 

Who,  born  for  the  Universe,  narrow'd  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his 

throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend '  to  lend  him  a 

vote ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of 

dining ; 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit, 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit : 
For  a  patriot,  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge,  disobedient ; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
In  short, 'twas  his  fate,  unemploy'd,  or  in  place,  Sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  whose  heart  was  a 

mint, 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that  was 

in't; 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  fore'd  him  along, 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong  ; 
Still  aiming  at  honour,  yet  fearing  to  roam, 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home  ; 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits  ?  alas  !  he  had  none ; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were 

his  own. 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh 
at; 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet ; 

[1  M.P.  for  Whitchurch,  afterwards  Ld.  Sydney.] 


52  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

What  spirits  were  his  !  what  wit  and  what  whim  ! 
Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb  ; 1 
Now  wrangling  and   grumbling  to  keep  up  the 

ball, 
Now  teasing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all ! 
In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 
That  we  wish'd  him  full  ten  times  a  day  at  Old 

Nick; 
But,  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 
As  often  we  wish'd  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts  ; 
A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 
To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they 

are. 
His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 
And  comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine  ; 
Like  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out, 
Or  rather  like  tragedy  giving  a  rout. 
His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 
Of  virtues  and  feelings,  that  folly  grows  proud  ; 
And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleas'd  with  their  own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught  ? 
Or,  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault  ? 
Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 

[}  "The  above  Gentleman  (Richard  Burke)  having  slightly 
fractured  one  of  his  arms  and  legs,  at  different  times,  the 
Doctor  (i.e.  Goldsmith)  has  rallied  him  on  those  accidents,  as 
a  kind  of  retributive  justice  for  breaking  his  jests  on  other 
people."    (Note  to  Second  Edition.)] 


RETALIATION.  53 

Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 
He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself?1 

Here  Douglas  retires,  from  his  toils  to  relax, 
The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks  :  2 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  divines, 
Come,  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant 

reclines  : 
When  Satire  and  Censure  encircl'd  his  throne, 
I  fear'd  for  your  safety,  I  fear'd  for  my  own  ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 
Our  Dodds  3  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenricks  4  shall 

lecture  ; 
Macpherson  5  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style, 
Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  com- 
pile ; 
New  Lauders  and  Bowers G  the  Tweed  shall  cross 

over, 
No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover  ; 
Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark, 
And  Scotchmen  meet  Scotchmen,  and  cheat  in  the 
dark. 

[1  Cumberland  is  said  to  have  fancied  that  this  epitaph 
was  not  ironical.] 

[2  Douglas  exposed  two  literary  impostors, — Archibald 
Bower,  author  of  a  History  of  the  Popes,  and  William 
Lauder,  who  fabricated  a  charge  of  plagiarism  against 
Milton.] 

[3  The  Rev.  William  Dodd,  executed  for  forgery  in  June, 

1777-1 

[4  Dr.    Kenrick,  who  lectured   on  Shakespeare   at    the 

Devil  Tavern  in  1774.] 

[5  James  Macpherson  (1738-96)  of  Ossian  notoriety.     He 
had  recently  (1773)  published  a  prose  translation  of  Homer.] 
[6  Vide  note  2  above.] 


54  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me,  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man ; 
As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine  : 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line  : 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread, 
And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting  ; 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turn'd  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day. 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick  : 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleas'd  he  could  whistle  them 

back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came, 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame  ; 
Till  his  relish  grown  callous,  almost  to  disease, 
Who  pepper'd  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,1  and  Woodfalls  2  so  grave, 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and 

you  gave  ! 
How  did  Grub-street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you 

rais'd, 
While  hewasbe-Roscius'd,  and  you  were  be-prais'd  ! 

[!  Hugh  Kelly,  the  dramatist  (1739-77),  author  of  False 
Delicacy,  A  Word  to  the  Wise,  etc. 

[2  William  Woodfall,  d.  1803,  editor  of  The  Morning 
Chronicle.} 


RETALIATION.  55 

But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 
To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the  skies  : 
Those  poets,  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will. 
Old  Shakespeare,  receive  him,   with  praise   and 

with  love, 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt,  pleasant 
creature, 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good  nature  : 
He  cherish'd  his  friend,  and  he  relish 'd  a  bumper  , 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser  ? 
I  answer,  no,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser : 
Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 
His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  hhn  of  that : 
Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 
And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ?     Ah  no  ! 
Then  what  was  his  failing?  come  tell  it,  and  burn 

ye  ! 
He  was,  could  he  help  it  ? — a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  better  or  wiser  behind  : 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand  ; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland  ; 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart  : 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judg'd  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of 
hearing  : 


56  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios, 

and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff  .  .  .l 

POSTSCRIPT. 

[First  printed  in  the  Fifth  Edition,  1774.] 

After  the  Fourth  Edition  of  this  Poem  was  printed,  the 
Publisher  received  an  Epitaph  on  Mr.  Whitefoord,  from  a 
friend  of  the  late  Doctor  Goldsmith,  inclosed  in  a  letter,  of 
which  the  following  is  an  abstract  : 

'  I  have  in  my  possession  a  sheet  of  paper,  containing 
near  forty  lines  in  the  Doctor's  own  hand-writing  :  there  are 
many  scattered,  broken  verses,  on  Sir  Jos.  Reynolds,  Coun- 
sellor Ridge,  Mr.  Beauclerk,  and  Mr.  Whitefoord.  The 
Epitaph  on  the  last-mentioned  gentleman  is  the  only  one 
that  is  finished,  and  therefore  I  have  copied  it,  that  you  may 
add  it  to  the  next  edition.  It  is  a  striking  proof  of  Doctor 
Goldsmith's  good-nature.  I  saw  this  sheet  of  paper  in  the 
Doctor's  room,  five  or  six  days  before  he  died  ;  and,  as  I  had 
got  all  the  other  Epitaphs,  I  asked  him  if  I  might  take  it. 
"  In  truth  you  may,  my  Boy,"  (replied  he)  "for  it  will  be 
of  no  use  to  me  where  I  am  going."  ' 

ERE  Whitefoord2  reclines,  and  deny  it 

who  can, 
Though  he  merrily  liv'd,  he  is  now  a 
grave  man ; 
Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun  ! 
Who  relish'd  a  joke,  and  rejoic'd  in  a  pun ; 

f1  Prior  (Life  of  Goldsmith,  1837,  ii.  490)  says  half  a  line 
more  had  been  written.  It  was,  "  By  flattery  unspoiled  "— - 
and  remained  unaltered  in  the  MS.] 

[2  Caleb  Whitefoord,  d.  1810,  an  inveterate  punster,  and 
author  of  the  once-popular  "  Cross  Readings,"  for  an  ac- 
count of  which  see  Smith's  Life  of  Nollekois,  1828,  i.  336-7.] 


PH 

W 

RETALIATION.  57 

Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere  ; 
A  stranger  to  flatt'ry,  a  stranger  to  fear  ; 
Who  scatter'd  around  wit  and  humour  at  will ; 
Whose  daily  bon  mots  half  a  column  might  fill  ; 
A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice  free  ; 
A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he. 
What  pity,  alas  !  that  so  lib'ral  a  mind 
Should  so  long  be  to  news-paper  essays  confin'd  ; 
Who  perhaps  to  the  summit  of  science  could  soar, 
Yet  content  '  if  the  table  he  set  on  a  roar  ; ' 
Whose  talents  to  fill  any  station  were  fit, 
Yet  happy  if  Woodfall 1  confess'd  him  a  wit. 
Ye  news-paper  witlings  !  ye  pert  scribbling  folks  ! 
Who  copied  his  squibs,  and  re-echoed  his  jokes  ; 
Ye  tame  imitators,  ye  servile  herd,  come, 
Still  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb  : 
To  deck  it,  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 
And  copious  libations  bestow  on  his  shrine  : 
Then  strew  all  around  it  (you  can  do  no  less) 
Cross-readings,  Ship-news^    and   Mistakes  of  the 

Press. 
Merry  Whitefoord,  farewell  !  for  thy  sake  I  admit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humour,  I  had  almost  said 

wit  : 
This  debt  to  thy  mem'ry  I  cannot  refuse, 
'  Thou  best  humour'd  man  with  the  worst  humour'd 

muse.'3 

[1  H.  S.  Woodfall,  d.  1805,  printerof  the  Public  Advertiser, 
in  which  the  "  Cross  Readings  "  appeared.] 

[2  An  adaptation  of  Rochester  on  Lord  Buckhurst.  It  is 
half  suspected  that  Whitefoord  wrote  this  "  Postscript " 
himself.] 


THE   HAUNCH    OF  VENISON. 

A   POETICAL   EPISTLE  TO 

LORD   CLARE. 


m 


[  The  Haunch  of  Venison,  a  Poetical  Epistle  toLordClare. 
By  the  late  Dr.  Goldsmith.  With  a  Head  of  the  Author, 
Drawn  by  Henry  Bunbury,  Esq;  and  Etched  by  [James] 
Bretlierion — was  first  published  in  1776  by  J.  Ridley,  in  St. 
James's  Street  and  G.  Kearsly,  in  Fleet  Street.  It  is  sup- 
posed to  have  been  written  early  in  177 1.  The  present  ver- 
sion is  printed  from  the  second  edition  "taken  from  the 
author's  last  Transcript,"  and  issued  in  the  same  year  as  the 
first.] 


THE   HAUNCH    OF  VENISON. 


A    POETICAL    EPISTLE   TO    LORD    CLARE. 

HANKS,  my  Lord,  for  your  venison, 
for  finer  or  fatter 
Never  rang'd  in  a  forest,  or  smok'd  in 
a  platter  ; 

The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 
The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy. 
Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce  help 

regretting 
To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating  ; 
I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chambers,  to  place  it  in  view, 
To  be  shown  to  my  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu  ; 
As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so  so, 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show  : 
But  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  pride  in, 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fried  in. 
But  hold — let  me  pause — Don't  1  hear  you  pro- 
nounce 
This  tale  of  the  bacon  a  damnable  bounce  ? 
Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may  try, 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to  fly. 

[1  Robert  Nugent,  of  Carlanstown,  Westmeath ;  created 
Viscount  Clare  in  1766  ;  in  1776  Earl  Nugent.] 


62  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

But,  my  Lord,  it's  no  bounce  :  I  protest  in  my 

turn, 
It's  a   truth— and   your   Lordship  may  ask   Mr. 

Byrne.1 
To  go  on  with  my  tale— as  I  gaz'd  on  the  haunch, 
I  thought  of  a  friend  that  was  trusty  and  staunch  ; 
So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undress'd, 
To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  lik'd  best. 
Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose  ; 
'Twas   a   neck   and   a    breast— that   might   rival 

U[on]r[oeJs :— 2 
But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again, 
With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and 

the  when. 
There's  H[owa?-]d,  and  C[o/e]y,  and  H— rth,  and 

H[/]ff,3 
I  think  they  love  venison — I  know  they  love  beef; 
There's  my  countryman  H[?"]gg[?]ns— Oh  !  let  him 

alone, 
For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone. 
But  hang  it — to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat, 
Your  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat ; 
Such  dainties  to  them,  their  health  it  might  hurt, 
It's  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  wanting  a 

shirt. 
While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  centred, 
An  acquaintance,  a  friend  as   he  call'd  himself, 

enter'd  ; 
An  under-bred,  fine-spoken  fellow  was  he, 
And  he  smil'd  as  he  look'd  at  the  venison  and  me. 

[1  Lord  Clare's  nephew.] 

[2  Dorothy  Monroe,  a  celebrated  beauty.] 

[a  Paul  Hiffernan,  M.D.,  a  Grub-street  writer.] 


THE  HAUNCH  OF   VENISON.  C3 

What   have  we   got   here  ? — Why  this    is  good 

eating  ! 
Your  own,  I  suppose — or  is  it  in  waiting? ' 
'  Why,  whose  should  it  be  ?  '  cried  I  with  a  flounce, 
'  I  get  these  things  often  ; ' — but  that  was  a  bounce  : 
'  Some   lords,    my    acquaintance,    that   settle  the 

nation, 
Are  pleas'd  to  be  kind — but  I  hate  ostentation.' 

'  If  that  be  the  case,  then,'  cried  he,  very  gay, 
'  I'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way. 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me  ; 
No  words — I  insist  on't— precisely  at  three  : 
We'll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke  ;  all  the  wits  will 

be  there  ;  ' 
My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I'd  ask  my  Lord 

Clare. 
And  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner  ! 
We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  the  dinner. 
What  say  you — a  pasty  ?  it  shall,  and  it  must, 
And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 
Here,  porter  ! — this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-end  ; 
No   stirring — I    beg — my  dear    friend — my  dear 

friend  ! ' 
Thus  snatching  his  hat,  hebrush'd  off  like  the  wind, 
And  the  porter  and  eatables  follow'd  behind. 

Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 
'  And  nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself ; '  a 

[!  Cf.  Boileau,  Sat.,  iii,  11.  25-6,  which  Goldsmith  had  in 
mind.] 

[2  A  textual  quotation  from  the  love  letters  of  Henry 
Frederick,  Duke  of  Cumberland,  to  Lady  Grosvenor.] 


64  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman 

hasty, 
Yet  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty, 
Were  things  that  I  never  dislik'd  in  my  life, 
Though  clogg'dwith  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his  wife. 
So  next  day,  indue  splendour  to  make  my  approach, 
I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney  coach. 

When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to 

dine, 
(A  chair-lumber' d  closet  just  twelve  feet  by  nine  :) 
My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite 

dumb, 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would  not 

come  ; ' 
'  For  I  knew  it,'  he  cried,  '  both  eternally  fail, 
The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t'other  withThrale;2 
But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the  party 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew, 
They['re]  both  of  them  merry  and  authors  like  you  ; 
The  one  writes  the  Snarler,  the  other  the  Scourge  ; 
Some  think  he  writes  Cinua — he  owns  to  Panurge.'3 
While  thus  he  describ'd  them  by  trade  and  by  name, 
They  enter'd,  and  dinner  was  serv'd  as  they  came. 

At  the  top  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen, 
At  the  bottom  was  tripe  in  a  swingeing  tureen  ; 

[1  Cf.  Boileau,  lit  supra,  ll.  31-4.] 

[-  Henry  Thrale,  the  Southwark  brewer,  Johnson's  close 
friend  from  1765.] 

[3  These  were  noms  de  guerre  of  Dr.  W.  Scott,  Lord 
Sandwich's  chaplain,  an  active  supporter  of  the  Govern- 
ment.] 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON.  65 

At  the  sides  there  was  spinach  and  pudding  made 

hot ; 
In  the  middle  a  place  where  the  pasty — was  not. 
Now,  my  Lord,  as  for  tripe,  it's  my  utter  aversion, 
And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persian  ; 
So  there  I  sat  stuck,  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 
While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round. 
But  what  vex'd  me  most  was  that  d — 'd  Scottish 

rogue, 
With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles  and  his 

brogue ; 
And,   'Madam,'  quoth  he,   'may  this  bit  be  my 

poison,1 
A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on  ; 
Pray  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though  may  I  be  curs'd, 
But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to  burst.' 
'The  tripe,'  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  chocolate 

cheek, 
'  I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  the  week  : 
I  like  these  here  dinners  so  pretty  and  small ; 
But  your  friend  there,  the  Doctor,  eats  nothing 

at  all.' 
'O — Oh  !'  quoth  my  friend,  'he'll  come  on  in  a 

trice, 
He's  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's  nice : 
There's  a  pasty ' — '  A  pasty  ! '  repeated  the  Jew, 
'  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too.' 
'  What  the  de'il,  mon,  a   pasty  ! '   re-echoed  the 

Scot, 
1  Though  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  thot.' 
'  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,'  the  lady  cried  out  ; 
4  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,'  was  echoed  about. 

t1  Cf.  She  Stooj>s  to  Conquer,  Act  i,  Sc.  2.] 
F 


66  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

While  thus  we  resolv'd,  and  the  pasty  delay'd, 
With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  enter'd  the  maid  ; 
A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright, 
Wak'd  Priam  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night.1 
But  we  quickly  found  out,  for  who  could  mistake 

her? 
That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from  the 

baker  : 
And  so  it  fell  out,  for  that  negligent  sloven 
Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 
Sad  Philomel  thus — but  let  similes  drop — 
And  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop. 
To  be  plain,  my  good  Lord,  it's  but  labour  mis- 

plac'd 
To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste  ; 
You've  got  an   odd   something — a  kind   of  dis- 
cerning— 
A  relish — a  taste — sicken'd  over  by  learning  ; 
At  least  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known, 
That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your  own  : 
So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss, 
You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of  this. 

[1  Cf.  2  Henry  IV.  Act  i,  Sc.  i.] 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES. 


FART  OF  A  PROLOGUE  WRITTEN  AND 
SPOKEN  BY  THE  POET  LABERIUS, 

A    ROMAN    KNIGHT,    WHOM    CAESAR 
FORCED    UPON    THE   STAGE. 

PRESERVED    BY    MACROEIUS.1 

HAT  !  no  way  left  to  shun  th'  inglorious 

stage, 
And  save  from  infamy  my  sinking  age ! 
Scarce  half  alive,  oppress'd  with  many 
a  year, 
'What  in  the  name  of  dotage  drives  me  here  ? 
A  time  there  was,  when  glory  was  my  guide, 
Nor  force  nor  fraud  could  turn  my  steps  aside ; 
Unaw'd  by  pow'r,  and  unappall'd  by  fear, 
With  honest  thrift  I  held  my  honour  dear : 
But  this  vile  hour  disperses  all  my  store, 
And  all  my  hoard  of  honour  is  no  more. 
For  ah  !  too  partial  to  my  life's  decline, 


f1  First  printed  at  pp.  176-7  of  Goldsmith's  Enquiry  inta 
the  Present  State  of 'Polite  Learning,  1759(011.  xii. — '  Of  the 
Stage').  The  original  lines  are  to  be  found  in  the  Satur- 
nalia of  Macrobius,  lib.  ii.  cap.  vii.  ed.  Zennii,  pp.  569-70.] 


7o  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Caesar  persuades,  submission  must  be  mine; 
Him  I  obey,  whom  heaven  itself  obeys, 
Hopeless  of  pleasing,  yet  inclin'd  to  please. 
Here  then  at  once,  I  welcome  every  shame, 
And  cancel  at  threescore  a  life  of  fame  ; 
No  more  my  titles  shall  my  children  tell, 
The  old  buffoon  will  fit  my  name  as  well ; 
This  day  beyond  its  term  my  fate  extends, 
For  life  is  ended  when  our  honour  ends. 


ON  A   BEAUTIFUL  YOUTH   STRUCK 
BLIND   WITH   LIGHTNING.1 

{Imitated from  the  Spanish.) 

URE  'twas  by  Providence  design'd, 
Rather  in  pity,  than  in  hate, 

That  he  should  be,  like  Cupid,  blind, 
To  save  him  from  Narcissus'  fate. 

['  First  printed  in  The  Bee,  6  October,  1759.] 


wtil&t 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  7i 


THE  GIFT. 

TO  IRIS,    IN   BOW-STREET,    COVENT-GARDEN.1 

AY,  cruel  Iris,  pretty  rake, 
Dear  mercenary  beauty, 
What  annual  offering  shall  I  make, 
Expressive  of  my  duty  ? 

My  heart,  a  victim  to  thine  eyes, 

Should  I  at  once  deliver, 
Say,  would  the  angry  fair  one  prize 

The  gift,  who  slights  the  giver  ? 

A  bill,  a  jewel,  watch,  or  toy, 

My  rivals  give — and  let  'em  : 
If  gems,  or  gold,  impart  a  joy, 

I'll  give  them — when  I  get  'em 

I'll  give— but  not  the  full-blown  rose, 
Or  rose-bud  more  in  fashion  ; 

Such  short-liv'd  offerings  but  disclose 
A  transitory  passion. 

[1  First  printed  in  The  Bee,  13  October,  1759.  It  is  an 
adaptation  of  some  lines  headed  Etrene  a  fris  in  Part  iii.  of 
the  Me'/iagiana.'] 


7a  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

I'll  give  thee  something  yet  unpaid, 
Not  less  sincere  than  civil : 

I'll  give  thee — Ah  !  too  charming  maid, 
I'll  give  thee — To  the  Devil. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PJECES.  73 


THE  LOGICIANS  REFUTED. 

IN   IMITATION    OF   DEAN   SWIFT.1 

'  OGICIANS  have  but  ill  defin'd 
As  rational  the  human  kind ; 
Reason,  they  say,  belongs  to  man, 
But  let  them  prove  it  if  they  can. 

Wise  Aristotle  and  Smiglecius, 

By  ratiocinations  specious, 

Have  strove  to  prove  with  great  precision, 

With  definition  and  division, 

Homo  est  ratione  praeditum, — 

But  for  my  soul  I  cannot  credit  'em  ; 

And  must  in  spite  of  them  maintain, 

That  man  and  all  his  ways  are  vain  ; 

And  that  this  boasted  lord  of  nature 

Is  both  a  weak  and  erring  creature  ; 

That  instinct  is  a  surer  guide 

Than  reason-boasting  mortal's  pride  ; 

And  that  brute  beasts  are  far  before  'em 

Dens  est  anima  brutorum. 

Who  ever  knew  an  honest  brute 

t1  First  printed  in  The  Busy  Body,  18  October,  1739,  with 
the  heading  :— "  The  following  poem  written  by  Dr.  Swift, 
is  communicated  to  the  Public  by  the  Busy  Body,  to  whom 
it  was  presented  by  a  Nobleman  of  distinguished  Learning 
and  Taste."  But  tradition,  and  the  early  editors,  ascribe 
the  lines  to  Goldsmith.] 


74  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

At  law  his  neighbour  prosecute, 

Bring  action  for  assault  and  battery, 

Or  friends  beguile  with  lies  and  flattery  ? 

O'er  plains  they  ramble  unconfin'd, 

No  politics  disturb  their  mind  ; 

They  eat  their  meals,  and  take  their  sport, 

Nor  know  who's  in  or  out  at  court ; 

They  never  to  the  levee  go 

To  treat  as  dearest  friend,  a  foe  ; 

They  never  importune  his  Grace, 

Nor  ever  cringe  to  men  in  place  ; 

Nor  undertake  a  dirty  job, 

Nor  draw  the  quill  to  write  for  B — b.1 

Fraught  with  invective  they  ne'er  go, 

To  folks  at  Paternoster  Row  ; 

No  judges,  fiddlers,  dancing-masters, 

No  pickpockets,  or  poetasters, 

Are  known  to  honest  quadrupeds  ; 

No  single  brute  his  fellow  leads. 

Brutes  never  meet  in  bloody  fray, 

Nor  cut  each  others'  throats,  for  pay. 

Of  beasts,  it  is  confess'd,  the  ape 

Comes  nearest  us  in  human  shape  ; 

Like  man  he  imitates  each  fashion, 

And  malice  is  his  ruling  passion  ; 

But  both  in  malice  and  grimaces 

A  courtier  any  ape  surpasses. 

Behold  him  humbly  cringing  wait 

Upon  a  minister  of  state  ; 

View  him  soon  after  to  inferiors, 

Aping  the  conduct  of  superiors  ; 

[1  Sir  Robert  Walpole.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  75 

He  promises  with  equal  air, 
And  to  perform  takes  equal  care. 
He  in  his  turn  finds  imitators  ; 
At  court,  the  porters,  lacqueys,  waiters, 
Their  master's  manners  still  contract, 
And  footmen,  lords  and  dukes  can  act. 
Thus  at  the  court  both  great  and  small 
Behave  alike,  for  all  ape  all. 


A   SONNET.1 

EEPING,  murmuring,  complaining, 
Lost  to  every  gay  delight ; 
Myra,  too  sincere  for  feigning, 

Fears  th'  approaching  bridal  night. 


Yet,  why  impair  thy  bright  perfection? 

Or  dim  thy  beauty  with  a  tear? 
Had  Myra  follow'd  my  direction, 

She  long  had  wanted  cause  of  fear. 

f1  First  printed  in  The  Bee,  20  October,  1750.     It  is  said 
to  be  an  imitation  of  Denis  Sanguin  de  St.-Pavin,  d.  1670.] 


75  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


STANZAS, 

ON  THE  TAKING  OF  QUEBEC,  AND  DEATH  OF 
GENERAL  WOLFE.1 

j  MIDST  the  clamour  of  exulting  joys, 
Which  triumph  forces  from  the  patriot 
heart, 
Grief  dares  to  mingle  her  soul-piercing 
voice, 
And  quells  the  raptures  which  from  pleasures 
start. 

O  Wolfe  !  to  thee  a  streaming  flood  of  woe, 
Sighing  we  pay,  and  think  e'en  conquest  dear  ; 

Quebec  in  vain  shall  teach  our  breast  to  glow, 
Whilst  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart-wrung  tear. 

Alive,  the  foe  thy  dreadful  vigour  fled, 

And  saw  thee  fall  with  joy-pronouncing  eyes  : 

Yet   they   shall    know   thou    conquerest,   though 
dead — ■ 
Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes  rise  ! 

[I  First  printed  in  The  Busy  Body,  22  October,  1759,  a 
week  after  the  news  of  Wolfe's  death  (on  13  September 
previous)  had  reached  England.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  77 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THAT  GLORY  OF  HER 
SEX,  MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE.1 

OOD  people  all,  with  one  accord, 
Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 
Who  never  wanted  a  good  word  — 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  pass'd  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind ; 
She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor, — 

Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighbourhood  to  please, 
With  manners  wond'rous  winning, 

And  never  followed  wicked  ways, — 
Unless  when  she  zuas  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size,  " 
She  never  slumber'd  in  her  pew, — 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 

By  twenty  beaux  and  more  ; 
The  king  himself  has  follow'd  her,— 

When  she  has  walk'd  before. 

[1  First  printed  in  The  Bee,  27  October,  1759.  It  is 
modelled  on  the  old  song  of  M.  de  la  Palice,  a  version  of 
which  is  to  be  found  in  Part  iii.  of  the  Mcnagiana.] 


78  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

But  now  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 
Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all ; 

The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead, — 
Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore, 
For  Kent-street  well  may  say, 

That  had  she  lived  a  twelve-month  more,— 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


79 


DESCRIPTION   OF  AN  AUTHOR'S 
BEDCHAMBER.1 

HERE  the  Red  Lion  flaring  o'er  the 

way, 
Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can 
pay; 

Where  Calvert's  butt,  and  Parsons'  black  cham- 
pagne,2 
Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury-lane  ; 
There  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 
The  Muse  found   Scroggen  stretch 'd  beneath  a 

rug; 

A  window,  patch 'd  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 
That  dimly  show'd  the  state  in  which  he  lay  ; 
The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread  ; 
The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread  : 
The  royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view, 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew  ;3 
The  seasons,  fram'd  with  listing,  found  a  place, 
And  brave  prince  William  show'd  his  lamp-black 
face ; 4 

[l  First  printed  in  a  Chinese  Letter  in  The  Public  Ledger, 
2  May,  1760,  afterwards  Letter  xxix.  of  The  Citizen  of  the 
World,  1762,  i.  121.] 

[2  i.e.,  "Entire  butt  beer"  or  porter.] 

[3  See  notes,  p.  40.] 

[«  William  Augustus,  Duke  of  Cumberland,  1721-65,— ■ 
probably  a  silhouette.] 


So  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

The  morn  was  cold,  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire ; 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scor'd, 
And  five  crack'd  teacups  dress'd  the  chimney  board ; 
A  nightcap  deck'd  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 
A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day  ! 1 

[1  Cf.  The  Deserted  Village,  p.  39  :— 

"  A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day."] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


Si 


ON  SEEING  MRS.  *  *  PERFORM  IN 
THE  CHARACTER  OF  *  *  *  *.1 

you,  bright  fair,  the  Nine  address 

their  lays, 
And  tune  my  feeble  voice  to  sing  thy 

praise. 

The  heartfelt  power  of  every  charm  divine, 
Who  can  withstand  their  all  commanding  shine? 
See  how  she  moves  along  with  every  grace, 
While  soul-brought  tears  steal  down  each  shining 

face. 
She  speaks  !  'tis  rapture  all,  and  nameless  bliss, 
Ye  gods  !  what  transport  e'er  compared  to  this  ? 
As  when  in  Paphian  groves  the  Queen  of  Love 
With  fond  complaint  address'd  the  listening  Jove  ; 
'Twas  joy  and  endless  blisses  all  around, 
And  rocks  forgot  their  hardness  at  the  sound. 
Then  first,  at  last  even  Jove  was  taken  in, 
And  felt  her  charms,  without  disguise,  within. 

[1  From  Letter  lxxxii.  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  1762, 
ii.  87,  first  printed  in  The  Public  Ledger,  21  October,  1760. 
The  verses  are  intended  as  a  specimen  of  the  newspaper 
muse.] 


82  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


OF  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  RIGHT 
HON.  *  *  *.» 


E  muses,  pour  the  pitying  tear 
For  Pollio  snatch'd  away  ; 
O  !  had  he  liv'd  another  year  ! 
He  had  not  died  to-day. 


O  !  were  he  born  to  bless  mankind 

In  virtuous  times  of  yore, 
Heroes  themselves  had  fallen  behind 

Whene'er  he  went  before. 

How  sad  the  groves  and  plains  appear, 

And  sympathetic  sheep ; 
Even  pitying  hills  would  drop  a  tear 

If  hills  could  learn  to  weep. 

His  bounty  in  exalted  strain 
Each  bard  might  well  display  : 

Since  none  implor'd  relief  in  vain 
That  went  relieved  away. 

[1  From  Letter  ciii.  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  1762,  ii. 
164,  first  printed  in  The.  Public  Ledger.  4  March,  1761. 
The  verses  are  given  as  "a  specimen  of  a  poem  on  the 
decease  of  a  great  man."  Cf.  the  Elegy  on  Mrs.  Mary 
Blaizc,  p.  77.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

And  hark  !  I  hear  the  tuneful  throng 

His  obsequies  forbid, 
He  still  shall  live,  shall  live  as  long 

As  ever  dead  man  did. 


Sj 


84  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


AN   EPIGRAM. 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  GENTLEMEN  REFLECTED  ON 
IN  THE  ROSCIAD,  A  POEM,  BY  THE  AUTHOR.1 

Worried  with  debts,  and  past  all  hopes  of  bail, 
His  pen  he  prostitutes  t'avoid  a  gaol. 

Roscom. 

ET  not  the  hungry  Bavius'angry  stroke 
Awake  resentment,  or  your  rage  pro- 
voke— 
But   pitying  his   distress,    let    virtue2 
shine, 
And  giving  each  your  bounty,3  let  him  dine. 
For  thus  retain'd,  as  learned  counsel  can, 
Each  case,  however  bad,  he'll  new  japan  ; 
And  by  a  quick  transition,  plainly  show 
'Twas  no  defect  of  yours,  but  pocket  low, 
That  caus'd  his  putrid  kennel  to  o'erflow. 

[l  From  Letter  ex.  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  1762,  ii. 
193,  first  printed  in  The  Public  Ledger,  14th  April,  1761. 
The  epigram,  however,  had  been  printed  in  the  Ledger  for 
4th  April,  and  so  was  only  revived  in  the  letter  of  ten  days 
iater.  It  is  one  of  Goldsmith's  doubtful  pieces,  but  his  ani- 
mosity to  Churchill  is  unquestioned.] 

2  Charity  (Author's  note). 

3  Settled  at  one  shilling,  the  price  of  the  poem  (Author's 
note). 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


TO   G.    C.   AND   R.    L.1 

WAS  you,  or  I,  or  he,  or  all  together, 
'Twas  one,  both,  three  of  them,  they 

know  not  whether ; 
This,   I  believe,  between  us  great  or 
small, 
You,  I,  he,  wrote  it  not— 'twas  Churchill's  all. 


TRANSLATION   OF  A  SOUTH 
AMERICAN   ODE.2 


N  all  my  Enna's  beauties  blest, 
Amidst  profusion  still  I  pine  ; 
For  though  she  gives  me  up  her  breast, 
Its  panting  tenant  is  not  mine. 


P  From  the  same  letter  as  the  preceding  epigram  ;  but 
not  a  reprint.  George  Colman  (G.  C),  and  Robert  Lloyd 
(R.  L.),  were  supposed  to  have  assisted  Churchill  in  the 
Rosciad,  the  '"it"  of  the  epigram.] 

P  From  Letter  cxiii.  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  1762, 
ii.  209,  first  printed  in  The  Public  Ledger,  13th  May, 
1761-] 


86 


POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


THE    DOUBLE    TRANSFORMATION. 


A   TALE. 

ECLUDEU  from  domestic  strife, 
Jack  Book-worm  led  a  college  life  ; 
A  fellowship  at  twenty-five 
.Made  him  the  happiest  man  alive  ; 
He  drank  his  glass  and  cracked  his  joke, 
And  Freshmen  wondered  as  he  spoke. 


Such  pleasures  unalloy'd  with  care, 
Could  any  accident  impair  ? 
Could  Cupid's  shaft  at  length  transfix 
Our  swain,  arriv'd  at  thirty-six  ? 
O  had  the  archer  ne'er  come  down 
To  ravage  in  a  country  town  ! 
Or  Flavia  been  content  to  stop 
At  triumphs  in  a  Fleet-street  shop. 
O  had  her  eyes  forgot  to  blaze  ! 
Or  Jack  had  wanted  eyes  to  gaze. 

O  ! But  let  exclamation  cease, 

Her  presence  banish'd  all  his  peace. 
So  with  decorum  all  things  carried  ; 
Miss  frown'd,  and  blush'd,  and  then  was — married. 

[l   First  printed  in  Essays,  by  Mr.  Goldsmith,  17G5,  p 
The  version  here  followed  is  that  of  the  second  edition  of 
1766,  which  was  revised.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  87 

Need  we  expose  to  vulgar  sight 
The  raptures  of  the  bridal  night  ? 
Need  we  intrude  on  hallow'd  ground, 
Or  draw  the  curtains  clos'd  around  ? 
Let  it  suffice,  that  each  had  charms  ; 
He  clasp'd  a  goddess  in  his  arms  ; 
And,  though  she  felt  his  usage  rough, 
Yet  in  a  man  'twas  well  enough. 

The  honey-moon  like  lightning  flew, 
The  second  brought  its  transports  too. 
A  third,  a  fourth,  were  not  amiss, 
The  fifth  was  friendship  mix'd  with  bliss : 
But,  when  a  twelvemonth  pass'd  away, 
Jack  found  his  goddess  made  of  clay  ; 
Found  half  the  charms  that  deck'd  her  face 
Arose  from  powder,  shreds,  or  lace  ; 
But  still  the  worst  remain'd  behind, 
That  very  face  had  robb'd  her  mind. 

Skill'd  in  no  other  arts  was  she, 
But  dressing,  patching,  repartee  ; 
And,  just  as  humour  rose  or  fell, 
By  turns  a  slattern  or  a  belle  : 
'Tis  true  she  dress'd  with  modern  grace, 
Half  naked  at  a  ball  or  race  ; 
But  when  at  home,  at  board  or  bed, 
Five  greasy  nightcaps  wrapp'd  her  head. 
Could  so  much  beauty  condescend 
To  be  a  dull  domestic  friend  ? 
Could  any  curtain-lectures  bring 
To  decency  so  fine  a  thing  ? 
In  short,  by  night,  'twas  fits  or  fretting  ; 


88  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

By  day,  'twas  gadding  or  coquetting. 

Fond  to  be  seen,  she  kept  a  bevy 

Of  powder'd  coxcombs  at  her  levy  ; 

The  'squire  and  captain  took  their  stations, 

And  twenty  other  near  relations  ; 

Jack  suck'd  his  pipe,  and  often  broke 

A  sigh  in  suffocating  smoke  ; 

While  all  their  hours  were  pass'd  between 

Insulting  repartee  or  spleen. 

Thus  as  her  faults  each  day  were  known, 
He  thinks  her  features  coarser  grown  ; 
He  fancies  every  vice  she  shows, 
Or  thins  her  lip,  or  points  her  nose  : 
Whenever  rage  or  envy  rise, 
How  wide  her  mouth,  how  wild  her  eyes  ! 
He  knows  not  how,  but  so  it  is, 
Her  face  is  grown  a  knowing  phiz  ; 
And,  though  her  fops  are  wond'rous  civil, 
He  thinks  her  ugly  as  the  devil. 

Now,  to  perplex  the  ravell'd  noose, 
As  each  a  different  way  pursues, 
While  sullen  or  loquacious  strife, 
Promis'd  to  hold  them  on  for  life, 
That  dire  disease,  whose  ruthless  power 
Withers  the  beauty's  transient  flower  : 
Lo  !  the  small-pox,  whose  horrid  glare 
Levell'd  its  terrors  at  the  fair  : 
And,  rifling  ev'ry  youthful  grace, 
Left  but  the  remnant  of  a  face. 

The  glass,  grown  hateful  to  her  sight, 
Reflected  now  a  perfect  fright : 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  89 

Each  former  art  she  vainly  tries 
To  bring  back  lustre  to  her  eyes. 
In  vain  she  tries  her  paste  and  creams, 
To  smooth  her  skin,  or  hide  its  seams  ; 
Her  country  beaux  and  city  cousins, 
Lovers  no  more,  flew  off  by  dozens  : 
The  'squire  himself  was  seen  to  yield, 
And  even  the  captain  quit  the  field. 

Poor  Madam,  now  condemn'd  to  hack 
The  rest  of  life  with  anxious  Jack, 
Perceiving  others  fairly  flown, 
Attempted  pleasing  him  alone. 
Jack  soon  was  dazzl'd  to  behold 
Her  present  face  surpass  the  old  ; 
With  modesty  her  cheeks  are  dy'd, 
Humility  displaces  pride  ; 
For  tawdry  finery  is  seen 
A  person  ever  neatly  clean  : 
No  more  presuming  on  her  sway, 
She  learns  good-nature  every  day  ; 
Serenely  gay,  and  strict  in  duty, 
Jack  finds  his  wife  a  perfect  beauty. 


go  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


A   NEW  SIMILE. 


IN   THE   MANNER   OF   SWIFT.1 


ONG  had  I  sought  in  vain  to  find 
A  likeness  for  the  scribbling  kind  ; 
The  modern  scribbling  kind,  who  write 
In  wit,  and  sense,  and  nature's  spite  : 
Till  reading,  I  forgot  what  day  on, 
A  chapter  out  of  Tooke's  Pantheon, 
I  think  I  met  with  something  there, 
To  suit  my  purpose  to  a  hair  ; 
L!ut  let  us  not  proceed  too  furious, 
First  please  to  turn  to  god  Mercurius  ; 
You'll  find  him  pictur'd  at  full  length 
In  book  the  second,  page  the  tenth  : 
The  stress  of  all  my  proofs  on  him  I  lay, 
And  now  proceed  we  to  our  simile. 

Imprimis,  pray  observe  his  hat, 
Wings  upon  either  side — mark  that. 
Well !  what  is  it  from  thence  we  gather  ? 
Why  these  denote  a  brain  of  feather. 
A  brain  of  feather  !  very  right, 
With  wit  that's  flighty,  learning  light  ; 
Such  as  to  modern  bard's  decreed  : 
A  just  comparison, — proceed. 

['  First  printed  in  Essays,  by  Mr.  Goldsmith,  1765^.  234. 
The  version  here  followed  is  that  of  the  second  edition  of 
1766,  which  was  slightly  revised.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  91 

In  the  next  place,  his  feet  peruse, 
Wings  grow  again  from  both  his  shoes  ; 
Design'd,  no  doubt,  their  part  to  bear, 
And  waft  his  godship  through  the  air  ; 
And  here  my  simile  unites, 
For  in  a  modern  poet's  nights, 
I'm  sure  it  may  be  justly  said, 
His  feet  are  useful  as  his  head. 

Lastly,  vouchsafe  t'  observe  his  hand, 
Filled  with  a  snake-encircl'd  wand  ; 
By  classic  authors  term'd  caduceus, 
And  highly  fam'd  for  several  uses. 
To  wit — most  wond'rously  endu'd, 
No  poppy  water  l  half  so  good  ; 
For  let  folks  only  get  a  touch, 
Its  soporific  virtue's  such, 
Though  ne'er  so  much  awake  before, 
That  quickly  they  begin  to  snore. 
Add  too,  what  certain  writers  tell, 
With  this  he  drives  men's  souls  to  hell. 

Now  to  apply,  begin  we  then  ; 
His  wand's  a  modern  author's  pen  ; 
The  serpents  round  about  it  twin'd 
Denote  him  of  the  reptile  kind  ; 
Denote  the  rage  with  which  he  writes, 
His  frothy  slaver,  venom'd  bites  ; 
An  equal  semblance  still  to  keep, 
Alike  too  both  conduce  to  sleep. 

[I  A  favourite  sleeping-draught.  "Juno  shall  give  her 
peacock  popf>y--water."  (Congrcve's  Love  for  Love,  1695, 
Act  IV.,  sc.  3.)] 


92  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

This  diffrence  only,  as  the  god 
Drove  souls  to  Tart'rus  with  his  rod, 
With  his  goosequill  the  scribbling  elf, 
Instead  of  others,  damns  himself. 

And  here  my  simile  almost  tript, 
Yet  grant  a  word  by  way  of  postscript. 
Moreover,  Merc'ry  had  a  failing  : 
Well !  what  of  that  ?  out  with  it — stealing  ; 
In  which  all  modern  bards  agree, 
Being  each  as  great  a  thief  as  he  : 
But  ev'n  this  deity's  existence 
Shall  lend  my  simile  assistance. 
Our  modern  bards  !  why  what  a  pox 
Are  they  but  senseless  stones  and  blocks  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  93 


EDWIN   AND   ANGELINA. 


URN,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way, 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale, 
With  hospitable  ray. 

'  For  here,  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow  ; 
Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 

Seem  lengthening  as  I  go.' 

'  Forbear,  my  son,'  the  Hermit  cries, 
'  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom2  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

'  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still ; 

t1  Written  in  or  before  1765,  when  it  was  printed  privately 
"for  the  amusement  of  the  Countess  of  Northumberland," 
under  the  title  of  Edwin  and  Angelina.  A  Ballad.  By 
Mr.  Goldsmith.  A  copy  in  this  rare  form  was  sold  at 
Heber's  sale  for  3s.  It  was  first  published  in  TIu  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,  1766,  i.  70  (ch.  viii.)  ;  and  again  in  Poems  for 
Young  Ladies,  1767,  p.  91.  The  version  here  followed  is 
that  in  the  fifth  edition  of  the  Vicar,  1773  [4],  pp.  78-85.] 

[■-'  i.e.,  Will  o'  the  Wisp.] 


94  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 
I  give  it  with  good  will. 

'  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows  ; 
My  rushy  couch,  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 

No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 

To  slaughter  I  condemn  : 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them. 

'  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring  ; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

'  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego  ; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong  : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long.' l 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heav'n  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell  : 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay  ; 
A  refuge  to  the  neighbouring  poor 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

[•  A  quotation  from  Young's  Complaint,  Night  iv.,  1743, 
P-9-J 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  9s 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Requir'd  a  master's  care  ; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Receiv'd  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  Hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 

And  cheer'd  his  pensive  guest  : 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 

And  gaily  press'd,  and  smil'd  ; 
And,  skill'd  in  legendary  lore, 

The  lingering  hours  beguil'd. 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries  ; 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth  ; 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 

To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe  ; 
For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 
With  answering  care  oppress'd  ; 

'  And  whence,  unhappy  youth,'  he  cried, 
'  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

'  From  better  habitations  spurn'd, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ; 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturn'd, 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 


96  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

'  Alas  !  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling  and  decay  ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

'  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep  ; 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 

'  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair  one's  jest  : 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

'  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 

And  spurn  the  sex,'  he  said  : 
But,  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 

Surpris'd,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view  ; 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confess'd 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

'  And,  ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 
A  wretch  forlorn,'  she  cried  ; 

'  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  97 

'  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 

"Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray  ; 
Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 

Companion  of  her  way. 

'  My  father  liv'd  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he  ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine, 

He  had  but  only  me. 

'  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms 

Unnumber'd  suitors  came  ; 
Who  prais'd  me  for  imputed  charms, 

And  felt  or  feign'd  a  flame. 

'  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 

With  richest  proffers  strove  : 
Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bovv'd, 

But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

'  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  nor  power  had  he  ; 
Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 

But  these  were  all  to  me. 

['  And  when  beside  me  in  the  dale 

He  caroll'd  lays  of  love  ; 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 

And  music  to  the  grove.1] 

[1  This  stanza,  which  is  not  in  the  contemporary  versions, 
was  given  to  Bishop  Percy,  for  his  edition  of  the  Works 
(1801),  by  Richard  Archdal,  Esq.,  who  had  received  it  from 
the  author.] 

H 


9S  POEMS   OF  GOLDSMITH. 

'  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 
The  dews  of  heaven  refin'd, 

Could  nought  of  purity  display, 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

'  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
With  charms  inconstant  shine  ; 

Their  charms  were  his,  but  woe  to  me  ! 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

*  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain  : 
And  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  heart, 
I  triumph'd  in  his  pain. 

'  Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn. 

He  left  me  to  my  pride  ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

*  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 
And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

'And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die ; 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I.' 

*  Forbid  it,  Heaven  ! '  the  Hermit  cried, 

And  clasp'd  her  to  his  breast : 
The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide, 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  prest. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

'  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restor'd  to  love  and  thee. 

'  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  ev'ry  care  resign  ; 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life — my  all  that's  mine  ? 

'  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 
We'll  live  and  love  so  true  ; 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 
Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too.' 


99 


POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A 
MAD  DOG.1 

OOD  people  all,  of  every  sort, 
Give  ear  unto  my  song ; 

And  if  you  find  it  wond'rous  short, 
It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 

Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 
That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 

Whene'er  he  went  to  pray.2 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes  ; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes.2 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends  ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad  and  bit  the  man. 

[l  First  printed  in  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  1766,  i.  175.] 
[2  Cf.  An  Elegy  on  Mrs.  Mary  Blaizc,  p.  77  ante.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  101 

Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets 
The  wond'ring  neighbours  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye  ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  show'd  the  rogues  they  lied : 

The  man  recover'd  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died.1 

['  This  termination  is  based  upon  an  epigram  in  the  Greek 
Anthology,  or  perhaps  upon  an  adaptation  by  Voltaire  ; 
"  L'autre  jour,  au  fond  d'un  vallon 
Un  serpent  mordit  Jean  Freron. 
Devinez  ce  qu'il  arriva? 
Ce  fut  le  serpent  qui  creva."] 


POEMS   OF  GOLDSMITH. 


SONG, 

FROM    'THE   VICAR   OF  WAKEFIELD.'1 


HEN  lovely  Woman  stoops  to  folly, 

And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 

What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away? 


The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 
To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  his  bosom,  is — to  die. 

t1  Sting  by  Olivia  in  chap.  v.  of  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield, 
1766,  ii.  7S,  where  it  was  first  printed.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  103 


EPILOGUE  TO   'THE  SISTER.' 

i.HAT  !  five  long  acts— and  all  to  make 
us  wiser  ! 
Our    authoress    sure    has   wanted   an 
adviser. 

Had  she  consulted  me,  she  should  have  made 
Her  moral  play  a  speaking  masquerade  ; 
Warm'd  up  each  bustling  scene,  and  in  her  rage 
Have  emptied  all  the  green-room  on  the  stage. 
My  life  on't,  this  had  kept  her  play  from  sinking ; 
Have  pleas'd   our   eyes,   and   sav'd   the   pain   of 

thinking. 
Well  !  since  she  thus  has  shown  her  want  of  skill, 
What  if  I  give  a  masquerade  ? — I  will. 
But  how  ?  ay,  there's  the  rub  !  [pausing] — I've  got 

my  cue : 
The  world's  a  masquerade  !  the  maskers,  you,  you, 
you.  (To  Boxes,  Pit,  and  Gallery.) 

Lud  !  what  a  group  the  motley  scene  discloses  ! 
False  wits,  false  wives,  false  virgins,   and    false 

spouses ! 
Statesmen  with  bridles  on  ;  and,  close  beside  'em, 
Patriots,  in  party-coloured  suits,  that  ride  'em. 
There  Hebes,  turn'd  of  fifty,  try  once  more 
To  raise  a  flame  in  Cupids  of  threescore. 

[l  TheSister,  1769,  in  which  this  epilogue  was  first  printed, 
was  a  comedy  by  Mrs.  Charlotte  Lennox  (1720-1804),  pro- 
duced at  Covent  Garden,  18  Februaiy,  1769.] 


io4  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

These  in  their  turn,  with  appetites  as  keen, 

Deserting  fifty,  fasten  on  fifteen, 

Miss,  not  yet  full  fifteen,  with  fire  uncommon, 

Flings  down  her  sampler,  and  takes  up  the  woman  : 

The  little  urchin  smiles,  and  spreads  her  lure, 

And  tries  to  kill,  ere  she's  got  power  to  cure. 

Thus  'tis  with  all — their  chief  and  constant  care 

Is  to  seem  everything  but  what  they  are. 

Yon  broad,  bold,  angry  spark,  I  fix  my  eye  on, 

Who  seems  to  have  robb'd  his  vizor  from  the  lion ; 

Who  frowns,  and  talks,  and  swears,  with  round 

parade, 
Looking,    as   who   should   say,    Dam'me  !  who's 

afraid  ?  {mimicking. ) 

Strip  but  his  vizor  off,  and  sure  I  am 
You'll  find  his  lionship  a  very  lamb. 
Yon  politician,  famous  in  debate, 
Perhaps,  to  vulgar  eyes,  bestrides  the  state  ; 
Yet,  when  he  deigns  his  real  shape  t'  assume, 
He  turns  old  woman,  and  bestrides  a  broom. 
Yon  patriot,  too,  who  presses  on  your  sight, 
And  seems  to  every  gazer  all  in  white, 
If  with  a  bribe  his  candour  you  attack, 
He  bows,   turns  round,  and  whip — the  man's  a 

black  ! 
Yon  critic,  too — but  whither  do  I  run  ? 
If  I  proceed,  our  bard  will  be  undone  ! 
Well  then  a  truce,  since  she  requests  it  too  : 
Do  you  spare  her,  and  I'll  for  once  spare  you. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  105 


PROLOGUE  TO   'ZOBEIDE.'1 

SPOKEN   BY   QUICK   IN   THE  CHARACTER  OF  A 
SAILOR. 

these  bold  times,2  when  Learning's 

sons  explore 
The   distant    climate    and    the    savage 

shore ; 

When  wise  Astronomers  to  India  steer, 
And  quit  for  Venus,  many  a  brighter  here  ; 
While  Botanists,  all  cold  to  smiles  and  dimpling, 
Forsake  the  fair,  and  patiently — go  simpling ; 
When  every  bosom  swells  with  wond'rous  scenes, 
Priests,  cannibals,  and  hoity-toity  queens  : 
Our  bard  into  the  general  spirit  enters, 
And  fits  his  little  frigate  for  adventures  : 
With  Scythian  stores,  and  trinkets  deeply  laden, 
He  this  way  steers  his  course,  in  hopes  of  trading- 
Yet  ere  he  lands  he'as  ordered  me  before, 
To  make  an  observation  on  the  shore. 
Where  are  we  driven  ?  our  reck'ning  sure  is  lost ! 
This  seems  a  barren  and  a  dangerous  coast. 

t1  Zobeide  was  a  play  by  Joseph  Cradock  of  Gumley,  in 
Leicestershire,  a  friend  of  Goldsmith's  latter  days.  It  was 
translated  from  Les  Scythes  of  Voltaire,  and  produced  at 
Covent  Garden,  11  December,  1771.  Goldsmith's  prologue 
is  here  printed  from  Cradock's  Memoirs,  1828,  iii.  8.] 

L2  A  reference  to  Cook's  just  concluded  voyage  to  Otaheite 
to  observe  the  transit  of  Venus.] 


io6  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Lord,  what  a  sultry  climate  am  I  under  ! 
Yon  ill  foreboding  cloud  seems  big  with  thunder. 

( Upper  Gallery. ) 
There  Mangroves  spread,  and  larger  than  I've  seen 

'em—  (Pit.) 

Here  trees  of  stately  size — and  turtles  in  'em — 

(Balconies.) 

Here  ill-condition 'd  oranges  abound 

(Stage.) 
And  apples  (takes  up  one  and  tastes  it),  bitter  apples 

strew  the  ground. 
The  place  is  uninhabited,  I  fear  ! 
I  heard  a  hissing — there  are  serpents  here  ! 
O  there  the  natives  are — a  dreadful  race  ! 
The  men  have  tails,  the  women  paint  the  face  ! 
No  doubt  they're  all  barbarians. — Yes,  'tis  so  ; 
I'll  try  to  make  palaver l  with  them  though  ; 

(making  signs.) 
'Tis  best,  however,  keeping  at  a  distance. 
Good  Savages,  our  Captain  craves  assistance  ; 
Our  ship's  well  stor'd  ; — in   yonder  creek  we've 

laid  her  ; 
His  honour  is  no  mercenary  trader  ;  2 
This  is  his  first  adventure  ;  lend  him  aid, 
Or  you  may  chance  to  spoil  a  thriving  trade. 
His  goods,  he  hopes,  are  prime,  and  brought  from 

far, 
Equally  fit  for  gallantry  and  war. 
What !  no  reply  to  promises  so  ample  ? 
I'd  best  step  back — and  order  up  a  sample. 

[1  i.e.  to  hold  a  parley.] 

[2  Cradock  gave  his  profits  to  his  "  Zobeide,"—  Mrs.  Yates, 
the  actress.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  107 


THRENODIA   AUGUST ALIS : 

SACRED   TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HER  LATE  ROYAL 

HIGHNESS  THE   PRINCESS   DOWAGER 

OF  WALES.1 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  following  may  more  properly  be  termed  a 
compilation  than  a  poem.  It  was  prepared  for  the 
composer  in  little  more  than  two  days  :  and  may 
therefore  rather  be  considered  as  an  industrious 
effort  of  gratitude  than  of  genius. 

In  justice  to  the  composer  it  may  likewise  be 
right  to  inform  the  public,  that  the  music  was 
adapted  in  a  period  of  time  equally  short. 

SPEAKERS. 

Mr.  Lee  and  Airs.  Bellamy. 

SINGERS. 

Mr.  C/iampnes,  Mr.  Dine,  and  Miss  Jameson. 
The  masie  prepared  and  adapted  by  Signor  Ven/o. 

t1  Augusta,  mother  of  George  the  Third,  who  died  at 
Carlton  House,  8  February,  1772.  This  piece  was  spoken 
and  sung  in  Mrs.  Teresa  Cornelys'  Great  Room  in  Soho 
Square  on  Thursday,  the  20th  following,  being  sold  at  the 
doors  as  a  4to.  pamphlet.  The  publisher  was  W.  Woodfall. 
The  author's  name  was  not  given  ;  but  the  advertisement 
here  reproduced  preceded  the  verses,  with  the  list  of  pet- 
formers.] 


io8  FOEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


THRENODIA  AUGUSTALIS. 

OVERTURE — A   SOLEMN    DIRGE.       AIR— TRIO. 


RISE,  ye  sons  of  worth,  arise, 
And  waken  every  note  of  woe  ; 
When  truth  and  virtue  reach  the  skies, 
'Tis  ours  to  weep  the  want  below  ! 


CHORUS. 
When  truth  and  virtue,  &c. 

MAN   SPEAKER. 
The  praise  attending  pomp  and  power, 
The  incense  given  to  kings, 
Are  but  the  trappings  of  an  hour, 
Mere  transitory  things. 
The  base  bestow  them  :  but  the  good  agree 
To  spurn  the  venal  gifts  as  flattery. 
But  when  to  pomp  and  power  are  joined 
An  equal  dignity  of  mind  ; 
When  titles  are  the  smallest  claim  : 
When  wealth,  and  rank,  and  noble  blood, 
But  aid  the  power  of  doing  good, 
Then   all  their  trophies  last, — and  flattery   turns 
to  fame. 
Blest  spirit  thou,  whose  fame,  just  born  to  bloom, 
Shall  spread  and  flourish  from  the  tomb, 
How  hast  thou  left  mankind  for  Heaven  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  109 

Even  now  reproach  and  faction  mourn, 

And,  wondering  how  their  rage  was  born, 

Request  to  be  forgiven  ! 

Alas  !  they  never  had  thy  hate  : 

Unmov'd  in  conscious  rectitude, 

Thy  towering  mind  self-centred  stood, 

Nor  wanted  man's  opinion  to  be  great. 

In  vain,  to  charm  thy  ravish'd  sight, 

A  thousand  gifts  would  fortune  send  ; 

In  vain,  to  drive  thee  from  the  right, 

A  thousand  sorrows  urg'd  thy  end  : 

Like  some  well-fashion'd  arch  thy  patience  st<M><l, 

And  purchas'd  strength  from  its  increasing  load. 

Pain  met  thee  like  a  friend  to  set  thee  free, 

Affliction  still  is  virtue's  opportunity  ! 

Virtue,  on  herself  relying, 

Eveiy  passion  hushed  to  rest, 

Loses  every  pain  of  dying 

In  the  hopes  of  being  blest. 

Every  added  pang  she  suffers 

Some  increasing  good  bestows, 

And  every  shock  that  malice  offers 

Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 

SONG.      BY   A   MAN. — AFFETTUOSO. 

Virtue,  on  herself  relying, 
Every  passion  hushed  to  rest, 
Loses  every  pain  of  dying 
In  the  hopes  of  being  blest. 
Every  added  pang  she  suffers 
Some  increasing  good  bestows, 
And  every  shock  that  malice  offers 
Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 


no  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

WOMAN   SrEAKER. 
Yet  ah  !  what  terrors  frowned  upon  her  fate, 
Death  with  its  formidable  band, 
Fever,  and  pain,  and  pale  consumptive  care, 
Determin'd  took  their  stand. 
Nor  did  the  cruel  ravagers  design 
To  finish  all  their  efforts  at  a  blow  : 
But,  mischievously  slow, 
They  robb'd  the  relic  and  defac'd  the  shrine. 
With  unavailing  grief, 
Despairing  of  relief, 
Her  weeping  children  round, 
Beheld  each  hour 
Death's  growing  power, 
And  trembled  as  he  frown'd. 

As  helpless  friends  who  view  from  shore 

The  labouring  ship,  and  hear  the  tempest  roar, 

While  winds  and  waves  their  wishes  cross  : 

They  stood,  while  hope  and  comfort  fail, 

Not  to  assist,  but  to  bewail 

The  inevitable  loss. 

Relentless  tyrant,  at  thy  call 

How  do  the  good,  the  virtuous  fall  ! 

Truth,  beauty,  worth,  and  all  that  most  engage, 

But  wake  thy  vengeance  and  provoke  thy  rage. 

SONG.     BY  A  MAN — BASSO,  STACCATO,  SPIRITOSO. 

When  vice  my  dart  and  scythe  supply 

How  great  a  king  of  terrors  I ! 

If  folly,  fraud,  your  hearts  engage, 

Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage  ! 

Fall,  round  me  fall,  ye  little  things, 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  in 

Ye  statesmen,  warriors,  poets,  kings  ! 
If  virtue  fail  her  counsel  sage, 
Tremble,  ye  mortals,  at  my  rage  ! 

MAN   SPEAKER. 
Yet  let  that  wisdom,  urged  by  her  example, 
Teach  us  to  estimate  what  all  must  suffer  ; 
Let  us  prize  death  as  the  best  gift  of  nature, 
As  a  safe  inn,  where  weary  travellers, 
When  they  have  journey'd  through  a  world  of  cares, 
May  put  off  life  and  be  at  rest  for  ever. 
Groans,  weeping  friends,  indeed,   and  gloomy 

sables, 
May  oft  distract  us  with  their  sad  solemnity. 
The  preparation  is  the  executioner. 
Death,  when  unmask'd,  shows  me  a  friendly  face, 
And  is  a  terror  only  at  a  distance  : 
For  as  the  line  of  life  conducts  me  on 
To  death's  great  court,  the  prospect  seems  more 

fair, 
'Tis  nature's  kind  retreat,  that's  always  open 
To  take  us  in  when  we  have  drained  the  cup 
Of  life,  or  worn  our  days  to  wretchedness. 
In  that  secure,  serene  retreat, 
Where  all  the  humble,  all  the  great, 
Promiscuously  recline  : 
Where  wildly  huddled  to  the  eye, 
The  beggar's  pouch  and  prince's  purple  lie, 
May  every  bliss  be  thine. 
And  ah  !  blest  spirit,  wheresoe'er  thy  flight, 
Through  rolling  worlds,  or  fields  of  liquid  light, 
May  cherubs  welcome  their  expected  guest, 
May  saints  with  songs  receive  thee  to  their  rest, 


ii2  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

May  peace  that  claim'd  while  here  thy  wannest 

love, 
May  blissful  endless  peace  be  thine  above  ! 

SONG.      BY  A  WOMAN — AMOROSO. 
Lovely  lasting  Peace  below, 
Comforter  of  every  woe, 
Heavenly  born  and  bred  on  high, 
To  crown  the  favourites  of  the  sky  ; 
Lovely  lasting  Peace,  appear, 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

WOMAN    SPEAKER. 

Our  vows  are  heard  !    Long,  long  to  mortal  eyes, 

Her  soul  was  fitting  to  its  kindred  skies : 

Celestial-like  her  bounty  fell, 

Where  modest  want  and  patient  sorrow  dwell, 

Want  pass'd  for  merit  at  her  door, 

Unseen  the  modest  were  supplied, 

Her  constant  pity  fed  the  poor, 

Then  only  poor,  indeed,  the  day  she  died. 

And  oh !  for  this !  while  sculpture  decks  thy  shrine, 

And  art  exhausts  profusion  round, 

The  tribute  of  a  tear  be  mine, 

A  simple  song,  a  sigh  profound. 

There  Faith  shall  come,  a  pilgrim  gray,1 

To  bless  the  tomb  that  wraps  thy  clay  : 

And  calm  Religion  shall  repair 

To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 

[1  Thesef  our  lines,  with  some  alteration,  are  taken  from 
Collins's  Ode  written  in  the  year  1746.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

Truth,  Fortitude,  and  Friendship,  shall  agree 
To  blend  their  virtues  while  they  think  of  thee. 

AIR.      CHORUS — POMPOSO. 
Let  us,  let  all  the  world  agree, 
To  profit  by  resembling  thee. 


"3 


H4 


POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


PART  II. 


OVERTURE. — rASTORALE. 


MAN   SPEAKER. 
AST   by    that    shore    where    Thames' 
translucent  stream 
Reflects  new  glories  on  his  breast, 
Where,  splendid  as  the  youthful  poet's 
dream, 
He  forms  a  scene  beyond  Elysium  blest : 
Where  sculptur'd  elegance  and  native  grace 
Unite  to  stamp  the  beauties  of  the  place  : 
While,  sweetly  blending,  still  are  seen 
The  wavy  lawn,  the  sloping  green  : 
While  novelty,  with  cautious  cunning, 
Through  every  maze  of  fancy  running, 
From  China  borrows  aid  to  deck  the  scene  : 
There  sorrowing  by  the  river's  glassy  bed, 
Forlorn,  a  rural  band  complain'd, 
All  whom  Augusta's  bounty  fed, 
All  whom  her  clemency  sustain'd  ; 
The  good  old  sire,  unconscious  of  decay, 
The  modest  matron,  clad  in  homespun  gray, 
The  military  boy,  the  orphan'd  maid, 
The  shatter'd  veteran,  now  first  dismay'd  ; 
These  sadly  join  beside  the  murmuring  deep, 
And  as  they  view 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES.  115 

The  towers  of  Kew,1 

Call  on  their  mistress,  now  no  more,  and  weep. 

CHORUS.— AFFETTUOSO,   LARGO. 
Ye  shady  walks,  ye  waving  greens, 
Ye  nodding  towers,  ye  fairy  scenes, 
Let  all  your  echoes  now  deplore, 
That  she  who  form'd  your  beauties  is  no  more. 

MAN   SPEAKER. 
First  of  the  train  the  patient  rustic  came, 
Whose  callous  hand  had  form'd  the  scene, 
Bending  at  once  with  sorrow  and  with  age, 
With  many  a  tear,  and  many  a  sigh  between, 
'And  where,'    he   cried,    'shall  now   my   babes 

have  bread, 
Or  how  shall  age  support  its  feeble  fire  ? 
No  lord  will  take  me  now,  my  vigour  fled, 
Nor  can  my  strength  perform  what  they  require : 
Each  grudging  master  keeps  the  labourer  bare, 
A  sleek  and  idle  race  is  all  their  care  : 
My  noble  mistress  thought  not  so  ! 
Her  bounty,  like  the  morning  dew, 
Unseen,  though  constant,  used  to  flow, 
And  as  my  strength  decay'd,  her  bounty  grew.' 

WOMAN  SPEAKER. 
In  decent  dress,  and  coarsely  clean, 
The  pious  matron  next  was  seen, 

P  "The  embellishment  of  Kew  Palace  and  gardens, 
under  the  direction  of  [Sir  William]  Chambers  and  others, 
was  the  favourite  object  of  her  [Royal  Highr.ess's]  widow- 
hood."    (Bolton  Corney.)] 


n6  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Clasp'd  in  her  hand  a  godly  book  was  borne, 

By  use  and  daily  meditation  worn  ; 

That  decent  dress,  this  holy  guide, 

Augusta's  care  had  well  supplied. 

'And  ah  !'  she  cries,  all  woe-begone, 

'  What  now  remains  for  me  ? 

Oh  !  where  shall  weeping  want  repair, 

To  ask  for  charity  ? 

Too  late  in  life  for  me  to  ask, 

And  shame  prevents  the  deed, 

And  tardy,  tardy  are  the  times 

To  succour,  should  I  need. 

But  all  my  wants,  before  I  spoke, 

Were  to  my  Mistress  known  ; 

She  still  reliev'd,  nor  sought  my  praise, 

Contented  with  her  own. 

But  every  day  her  name  I'll  bless, 

My  morning  prayer,  my  evening  song, 

I'll  praise  her  while  my  life  shall  last, 

A  life  that  cannot  last  me  long." 

SONG.      BY  A  WOMAN. 
Each  day,  each  hour,  her  name  I'll  bless, 
My  morning  and  my  evening  song, 
And  when  in  death  my  vows  shall  cease, 
My  children  shall  the  note  prolong. 

MAN   SPEAKER. 
The  hardy  veteran  after  struck  the  sight, 
Scarr'd,  mangled,  maim'd  in  every  part, 
Lopp'd  of  his  limbs  in  many  a  gallant  fight, 
In  nought  entire— except  his  heart  : 
Mute  for  a  while,  and  sullenly  distress'd, 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  117 

At  last  the  impetuous  sorrow  fired  his  breast. 

'  Wild  is  the  whirlwind  rolling 

O'er  Afric's  sandy  plain, 

And  wild  the  tempest  howling 

Along  the  billowed  main  :l 

But  every  danger  felt  before, 

The  raging  deep,  the  whirlwind's  roar, 

Less  dreadful  struck  me  with  dismay, 

Than  what  I  feel  this  fatal  day. 

Oh,  let  me  fly  a  land  that  spurns  the  brave, 

Oswego's  dreary  shores  shall  be  my  grave ; 3 

I'll  seek  that  less  inhospitable  coast, 

And  lay  my  body  where  my  limbs  were  lost.' 

SONG.      BY  A  MAN. — BASSO,    SPIRITOSO. 
Old  Edward's  sons,  unknown  to  yield, 
Shall  crowd  from  Cressy's  laurell'd  field, 
To  do  thy  memory  right  : 
For  thine  and  Britain's  wrongs  they  feel, 
Again  they  snatch  the  gleamy  steel, 
And  wish  the  avenging  fight.3 


WOMAN   SPEAKER. 
In  innocence  and  youth  complaining, 
Next  appear'd  a  lovely  maid, 
Affliction  o'er  each  feature  reigning, 
Kindly  came  in  beauty's  aid  ; 
Every  grace  that  grief  dispenses, 

[!  Cf.  The  Captivity,  p.  139.] 
[2  Cf.  The  Traveller,  p.  21.] 

I3  Varied  from  Collins's  Ode   on   the   Death  0/  Colonel 
Charles  Ross  at  Eontenoy.] 


nS  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Every  glance  that  warms  the  soul, 

In  sweet  succession  charm'd  the  senses, 

While  pity  harmoniz'd  the  whole. 

'  The  garland  of  beauty'  ('tis  thus  she  would  say,) 

'  No  more  shall  my  crook  or  my  temples  adorn, 

I'll  not  wear  a  garland,  Augusta's  away, 

I'll  not  wear  a  garland  until  she  return : 

But  alas  !  that  return  I  never  shall  see  : 

The  echoes  of  Thames  shall  my  sorrows  proclaim, 

There  promis'd  a  lover  to  come,  but,  Oh  me ! 

'Twas  death, — 'twas  the  death  of  my  mistress  that 

came. 
But  ever,  for  ever,  her  image  shall  last, 
I'll  strip  all  the  spring  of  its  earliest  bloom  ; 
On  her  grave  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be 

cast, 
And    the  new-blossom'd   thorn  shall  whiten  her 

tomb.' 


SONG.      BY  A  WOMAN. — PASTORALE. 
With  garlands  of  beauty  the  queen  of  the  May 
No  more  will  her  crook  or  her  temples  adorn  ; 
For  who'd  wear  a  garland  when  she  is  away, 
When  she  is  remov'd,  and  shall  never  return. 


On  the  grave  of  Augusta  these  garlands  be  plac'd, 
We'll  rifle  the  spring  of  its  earliest  bloom,1 
And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast. 
And    the   new-blossom'd  thorn  shall  whiten  her 
tomb. 

['  Cf.  Collins's  Dirge  in  Cymbdine.} 


M ISC  ELL  A  NEO  US  PIECES. 


119 


CHORUS. — ALTRO   MODO. 

On  the  grave  of  Augusta  this  garland  be  plac'd, 
We'll  rifle  the  spring  of  its  earliest  bloom  ; 
And  there  shall  the  cowslip  and  primrose  be  cast, 
And  the  tears  of  her  country  shall  water  her  tomb. 


POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


SONG. 

INTENDED   TO   HAVE   BEEN   SUNG   IN    'SHE 
STOCKS  TO   CONQUER.'1 

H,  me  !  when  shall  I  marry  me  ? 

Lovers  are  plenty ;  but  fail  to  relieve 
me  : 
He,  fond  youth,  that  could  carry  me, 
Offers  to  love,  but  means  to  deceive  me. 

But  I  will  rally,  and  combat  the  ruiner  : 

Not  a  look,  not  a  smile  shall  my  passion  discover : 

She  that  gives  all  to  the  false  one  pursuing  her, 
Makes  but  a  penitent,  loses  a  lover. 

[1  This  was  first  printed  by  Boswell  in  the  London  Maga- 
zine for  June,  1774.  It  had  been  intended  for  the  part  of 
"  Miss  Hardcastle,"  but  Mrs.  Bulkley,  who  played  that 
part,  was  no  vocalist.  Goldsmith  himself  sang  it  very  agree- 
ably to  an  Irish  air,  The  Humours  of  Balamagairy.  (See 
Birkbeck  Plill's  Boswell,  1887,  ii.  219.)] 


MISCELLANEO US  PIECES. 


TRANSLATION.1 

Addison,  in  some  beautiful  Latin  lines  inserted  in  the  Spec- 
tator, is'  entirely  of  opinion  that  birds  observe  a  strict 
chastity  of  manners,  and  never  admit  the  caresses  of  a 
different  tribe.— (».  Spectator,  No.  412.) 

HASTE  are  their  instincts,  faithful  is 

their  fire, 
No    foreign    beauty    tempts    to    false 

desire ; 

The  snow-white  vesture,  and  the  glittering  crown, 
The  simple  plumage,  or  the  glossy  down 
Prompt  not  their  love  :— the  patriot  bird  pursues 
His  well  acquainted  tints,  and  kindred  hues. 
Hence  through  their  tribes  no  mix'd  polluted  flame, 
No  monster-breed  to  mark  the  groves  with  shame ; 
But  the  chaste  blackbird,  to  its  partner  true, 
Thinks  black  alone  is  beauty's  favourite  hue. 
The  nightingale,  with  mutual  passion  blest, 
Sings  to  its  mate,  and  nightly  charms  the  nest : 
While  the  dark  owl  to  court  its  partner  flies, 
And  owns  its  offspring  in  their  yellow  eyes. 

[1  From  Goldsmith's  History  oftlie  Earth  and  Animated 
Nature,  1774,  v.,  312.] 


u> 


POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


EPITAPH   ON   THOMAS 
PARNELL.1 

HIS  tomb,  inscrib'd  to  gentle  Parnell's 

name, 
May  speak  our  gratitude,  but  not  his 

fame. 

What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly-moral  lay, 
That  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure's  flowery  way  ! 
Celestial  themes  confess'd  his  tuneful  aid  ; 
And  Heaven,  that  lent  him  genius,  was  repaid. 
Needless  to  him  the  tribute  we  bestow — 
The  transitory  breath  of  fame  below  : 
More  lasting  rapture  from  his  works  shall  rise, 
While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skies. 

P  This  epitaph  was  first  printed  with  The  Haunch  of 
Venison,  1776.  Parnell  died  in  171s,  In  1770  Goldsmith 
wrote  his  life.] 


^pr 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  123 


THE   CLOWN'S   REPLY.1 

pHN  TROTT  was  desired  by  two  witty 
peers 
To  tell  them  the  reason  why  asses  had 
ears. 
'An't  please  you,'  quoth   John,   'I'm  not  given 

to  letters, 
Nor  dare  I  pretend  to  know  more  than  my  betters  ; 
Howe'er  from  this  time   I   shall  ne'er  see  your 

graces, 
As   I  hope  to   be   saved !    without   thinking   on 
asses. ' 


EPITAPH    ON    EDWARD 
PURDON.2 

rERE  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery 
freed, 
Who  long  was  a  bookseller's  hack  ; 
He  led  such  a  damnable  life  in  this 
world, — 
I  don't  think  he'll  wish  to  come  back. 

[1  First  printed  at  p.  79  of  Poems  and  Plays.  By  Oliver 
Goldsmith,  M.B.  Dublin,  1777.  It  is  there  dated  "  Edin- 
burgh, 1753-"] 

[2  First  printed  as  Goldsmith's  in  Poems  and  Plays, 
I777>  P-  79-  Purdon  had  been  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
with  Goldsmith.  Swift  wrote  a  somewhat  similar  epigram  ; 
but  Goldsmith's  model  was  probably  La  Mart  dn  Sieur 
Etiennc.    (Forster's  Life.  1871,  ii.,  59.)] 


124  FORMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


EPILOGUE  FOR   MR.   LEE 
LEWES.1 


OLD  !    Prompter,  hold  !  a  word  before 

your  nonsense ; 
I'd  speak  a  word  or  two,  to  ease  my 

conscience. 
My  pride  forbids  it  ever  should  be  said, 
My  heels  eclips'd  the  honours  of  my  head ; 
That  I  found  humour  in  a  piebald  vest, 
Or  ever  thought  that  jumping  was  a  jest. 

( Takes  off  his  mas/c.) 
Whence,  and  what  art  thou,  visionary  birth  ? 
Nature  disowns,  and  reason  scorns  thy  mirth, 
In  thy  black  aspect  every  passion  sleeps, 
The  joy  that  dimples,  and  the  woe  that  weeps. 
How  hast  thou  fill'd  the  scene  with  all  thy  brood, 
Of  fools  pursuing,  and  of  fools  pursu'd  ! 
Whose  ins  and  outs  no  ray  of  sense  discloses, 
Whose  only  plot  it  is  to  break  our  noses ; 
Whilst  from  below  the  trap-door  Demons  rise, 
And  from  above  the  dangling  deities  ; 
And  shall  I  mix  in  this  unhallow'd  crew? 
May  rosin'd  lightning  blast  me,  if  I  do  ! 
No — I  will  act,  I'll  vindicate  the  stage  : 

P  Charles  Lee  Lewes  (1740-1803)  was  the  original  "Young 
Marlow "  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  He  had  previously 
been  harlequin  of  the  theatre,  but  he  thoroughly  succeeded 
in  his  new  part,  and  the  grateful  author  wrote  him  this  £/i- 
Ugue  for  his  Benefit,  May  7, 1773.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  125 

Shakespeare  himself  shall  feel  my  tragic  rage. 
Off !  off !  vile  trappings  !  a  new  passion  reigns  ! 
The  madd'ning  monarch  revels  in  my  veins. 
Oh  !  for  a  Richard's  voice  to  catch  the  theme  : 
'  Give  me  another  horse  !  bind  up  my  wounds  ! — 

soft — 'twas  but  a  dream.' 
Ay,  'twas  but  a  dream,  for  now  there's  no  retreating : 
If  I  cease  Harlequin,  I  cease  from  eating. 
'Twas  thus  that  Aesop's  stag,  a  creature  blameless, 
Yet  something  vain,  like  one  that  shall  be  nameless, 
Once  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain  stood, 
And  cavill'd  at  his  image  in  the  flood. 
'The  deuce  confound,'  he  cries,  'these  drumstick 

shanks, 
They  never  have  my  gratitude  nor  thanks ; 
They're  perfectly  disgraceful !  strike  me  dead  ! 
But  for  a  head,  yes,  yes,  I  have  a  head. 
How  piercing  is  that  eye  !  how  sleek  that  brow  ! 
My  horns  !  I'm  told  horns  are  the  fashion  now.' 
Whilst  thus  he  spoke,  astonish'd,  to  his  view, 
Near,  and  more  near,  the  hounds  and  huntsmen 

drew. 
'  Hoicks  !  hark  forward  ! '  came  thund'ring  from 

behind, 
He  bounds  aloft,  outstrips  the  fleeting  wind  : 
He  quits  the  woods,  and  tries  the  beaten  ways  ; 
He  starts,  he  pants,  he  takes  the  circling  maze. 
At  length  his  silly  head,  so  priz'd  before, 
Is  taught  his  former  folly  to  deplore  ; 
Whilst  his  strong  limbs  conspire  to  set  him  free, 
And  at  one  bound  he  saves  himself, — like  me. 

{Taking  a  jump  through  the  stage  door.) 


126 


POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


EPILOGUE. 

INTENDED   TO   HAVE  BEEN   SPOKEN   FOR   '  SHE 
STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.'1 

Enter  MRS.  Bulkley,  who  curtsies  very  low  as 
beginning  to  speak.  Then  enter  Miss  Catley, 
who  stands  full  before  her,  and  curtsies  to  the 
audience. 


MRS.    BULKLEY. 
OLD,    Ma'am,   your    pardon.     What's 
your  business  here  ? 


The  Epilogue. 


MISS  CATLEY. 


MRS.    BULKLEY. 
The  Epilogue? 


MISS   CATLEY. 

Yes,  the  Epilogue,  my  dear. 


MRS.  BULKLEY. 

Sure  you  mistake,  Ma'am.    The  Epilogue,  /bring 
it. 

[1  This  Epilogue,  given  to  Bishop  Percy  by  Goldsmith, 
was  first  printed  at  p.  82,  vol.  ii,  of  the  Miscellaneous  Works 
of  1801.  It  was  written  with  intent  to  conciliate  the  rival 
claims  of  Mrs.  Bulkley  and  Miss  Catley,  the  former  of 
whom  wished  to  speak,  the  latter  to  sing  the  Epilogue. 
(See  Cradock's Memoirs,  1826,  i.,  225.)] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  127 

MISS  CATLEY. 

Excuse  me,  Ma'am.     The  Author  bid  me  sing  it. 

Recitative. 
Ye  beaux  and  belles,  that  form  this  splendid  ring, 
Suspend  your  conversation  while  I  sing. 

MRS.    BULKLEY. 

Why,  sure  the  girl's  beside  herself :  an  Epilogue 

of  singing, 
A  hopeful  end  indeed  to  such  a  blest  beginning. 
Besides,  a  singer  in  a  comic  set ! — 
Excuse  me,  Ma'am,  I  know  the  etiquette. 

MISS   CATLEY. 

What  if  we  leave  it  to  the  House  ? 

MRS.    BULKLEY. 

The  House !— Agreed 

MISS  CATLEY. 

Agreed. 

MRS.    BULKLEY. 
And  she,  whose  party's  largest,  shall  proceed. 
And  first,  I  hope  you'll  readily  agree 
I've  all  the  critics  and  the  wits  for  me. 
They,  I  am  sure,  will  answer  my  commands  ; 
Ye  candid  judging  few,  hold  up  your  hands. 
What !  no  return  ?  I  find  too  late,  I  fear, 
That  modern  judges  seldom  enter  here. 


123  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

MISS   CATLEY. 
I'm  for  a  different  set. — Old  men,  whose  trade  is 
Still  to  gallant  and  dangle  with  the  ladies  ; — 

Recitative. 
Who  mump  their  passion,  and  who,  grimly  smiling, 
Still  thus  address  the  fair  with  voice  beguiling  : — 

Air—  Cotillon. 
Turn,  my  fairest,  turn,  if  ever 

Strephon  caught  thy  ravish'd  eye  ; 
Pity  take  on  your  swain  so  clever, 
Who  without  your  aid  must  die. 

Yes,  I  shall  die,  hu,  hu,  hu,  hu  ! 
Yes,  I  must  die,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

{Da  capo.) 

MRS.    BULKLEY. 
Let  all  the  old  pay  homage  to  your  merit ; 
Give  me  the  young,  the  gay,  the  men  of  spirit. 
Ye  travell'd  tribe,  ye  macaroni x  train, 
Of  French  friseurs,  and  nosegays,  justly  vain, 
Who  take  a  trip  to  Paris  once  a  year 
To  dress,  and  look  like  awkward  Frenchmen  here, 
Lend  me  your  hands.  —  Oh  !  fatal  news  to  tell : 
Their  hands  are  only  lent  to  the  Heinel.2 

[!  A  name  derived  from  the  Italian  dish  first  patronized  by 
the  "Macaroni  Club,"  and  afterwards  extended  to  "the 
younger  and  gayer  part  of  our  nobility  and  gentry,  who,  at 
the  same  time  that  they  gave  in  to  the  luxuries  of  eating, 
went  equally  into  the  extravagancies  of  dress."  (Macaroni 
atid  Theatrical  Magazine,  October,  1772.)  See  note  to 
the  Dullissimo  Macaroni  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.] 

[-  Mademoiselle  Anna-Frederica  Heinel,  a  beautiful  Prus- 
sian danseuse  at  this  time  in  London,  afterwards  the  wife  of 
the  elder  Vestris.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  129 

MISS   CATLEY. 
Ay,  take  your  travellers,  travellers  indeed  ! 
Give  me  my  bonny  Scot,   that  travels  from  the 

Tweed. 
Where  are  the  chiels  ?    Ah  !  Ah,  I  well  discern 
The  smiling  looks  of  each  bewitching  bairn. 

Air — A  bonny  young  lad  is  my  Jockey. 
I'll  sing  to  amuse  you  by  night  and  by  day, 
And  be  unco  merry  when  you  are  but  gay ; 
When  you  with  your  bagpipes  are  ready  to  play, 
My  voice  shall  be  ready  to  carol  away 

With  Sandy,  and  Sawney,  and  Jockey, 
With  Sawney,  and  Jarvie,  and  Jockey. 

MRS.    BULKLEY. 

Ye  gamesters,  who,  so  eager  in  pursuit, 
Make  but  of  all  your  fortune  one  va  toule: 
Ye  jockey  tribe,  whose  stock  of  words  are  few, 
'  I  hold  the  odds. — Done,  done,  with  you,  with 

you.' 
Ye  barristers,  so  fluent  with  grimace, 
'My  Lord, — your  Lordship  misconceives  the  case.' 
Doctors,  who  cough  and  answer  every  misfortuner, 
1 1  wish  I'd  been  call'd  in  a  little  sooner,' 
Assist  my  cause  with  hands  and  voices  hearty, 
Come  end  the  contest  here,  and  aid  my  party. 

MISS   CATLEY. 

Air — Ballinamon  y. 
Ye  brave  Irish  lads,  hark  away  to  the  crack, 
Assist  me,  I  pray,  in  this  woful  attack  ; 
For  sure  I  don't  wrong  you,  you  seldom  are  slack, 

K 


i3o  poems  or  goldsmith. 

When  the  ladies  are  calling,  to  blush,  and  hang 
back. 

For  you're  always  polite  and  attentive, 
Still  to  amuse  us  inventive, 
And  death  is  your  only  preventive  : 
Your  hands  and  your  voices  for  me. 

MRS.    BULKLEY. 
Well,  Madam,  what  if,  after  all  this  sparring, 
We  both  agree,  like  friends,  to  end  our  jarring? 

MISS    CAT  LEY. 

And  that  our  friendship  may  remain  unbroken, 
What  if  we  leave  the  Epilogue  unspoken  ? 

MRS.    BULKLEY. 

Agreed. 

MISS   CATLEY. 
Agreed. 

MRS.    BULKLEY. 
And  now  with  late  repentance, 
Un-epilogued  the  Poet  waits  his  sentence. 
Condemn  the  stubborn  fool  who  can't  submit 
To  thrive  by  flattery,  though  he  starves  by  wit. 

{Exeunt. ) 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


EPILOGUE 

INTENDED    TO   HAVE   BEEN    SPOKEN   BY    MRS. 
BULKLEY   FOR    'SHE   STOOPS   TO   CONQUER." 

f  HERE  is  a  place,  so  Ariosto  sings,2 
A  treasury  for  lost  and  missing  things  ; 
Lost  human  wits  have  places  there  as- 
signed them, 
And  they,   who  lose  their  senses,  there  may  find 

them. 
But  where's  this  place,  this  storehouse  of  the  age  ? 
The  Moon,  says  he  : — but  /  affirm  the  Stage  : 
At  least  in  many  things,  I  think,  I  see 
His  lunar,  and  our  mimic  world  agree. 
Both  shine  at  night,  for,  but  at  Foote's  alone,3 
We  scarce  exhibit  till  the  sun  goes  down. 
Both  prone  to  change,  no  settled  limits  fix, 
And  sure  the  folks  of  both  are  lunatics. 
But  in  this  parallel  my  best  pretence  is, 
That  mortals  visit  both  to  find  their  senses. 
To  this  strange  spot,  Rakes,  Macaronies,  Cits, 
Come  thronging  to  collect  their  scatter'd  wits. 

[1  This  epilogue,  also  given  to  Bishop  Percy  by  Goldsmith 
in  MS.,  was  first  printed  in  the  Miscellaneous  Works  of 
1801,  ii,  87.  Colman,  the  Manager,  thought  it  "  too  bad  to 
be  spoken,"  and  the  author  accordingly  wrote  that  printed 
with  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  in  vol.  ii.  (See  Cradock's 
Memoirs,  1826,  i,  225.)] 
t2  Orlando  Furioso,  Canto  xxxiv.J 
[3  Foote  gave  watine'es  at  the  Haymarket.] 


132  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

The  gay  coquette,  who  ogles  all  the  day, 
Comes  here  at  night,  and  goes  a  prude  away. 
Hither  the  affected  city  dame  advancing, 
Who  sighs  for  operas,  and  dotes  on  dancing, 
Taught  by  our  art  her  ridicule  to  pause  on, 
Quits  the  Ballet,  and  calls  for  Nancy  Dawson} 
The  Gamester  too,  whose  wit's  all  high  or  low, 
Oft  risks  his  fortune  on  one  desperate  throw, 
Comes  here  to  saunter,  having  made  his  bets, 
Finds  his  lost  senses  out,  and  pay  his  debts. 
The  Mohawk  too,  with  angry  phrases  stored, 
As  '  Dam 'me,  Sir,'  and  '  Sir,  I  wear  a  sword  ; ' 
Here  lesson'd  for  a  while,  and  hence  retreating, 
Goes  out,  affronts  his  man,  and  takes  a  beating. 
Here  come  the  sons  of  scandal  and  of  news, 
But  find  no  sense — for  they  had  none  to  lose. 
Of  all  the  tribe  here  wanting  an  adviser 
Our  Author's  the  least  likely  to  grow  wiser ; 
Has  he  not  seen  how  you  your  favour  place, 
On  sentimental  Queens  and  Lords  in  lace? 
Without  a  star,  a  coronet  or  garter, 
How  can  the  piece  expect  or  hope  for  quarter  ? 
No  high-life  scenes,  no  sentiment  : — the  creature 
Still  stoops  among  the  low  to  copy  nature.2 
Yes,  he's  far  gone  : — and  yet  some  pity  fix, 
The  English  laws  forbid  to  punish  lunatics. 

I1  A  popular  song  bearing  the  name  of  a  famous  hornpipe 
dancer  and  "toast"  who  died  at  Hampstead  in  1767.] 
['  An  obvious  reference  to  the  title  of  the  play.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


133 


THE  CAPTIVITY  :  AN  ORATORIO.1 


[the  persons. 

First  Jewish  Prophet.  First  Chaldean  Priest. 

Second  Jewish  Prophet.  Second  Chaldean  Priest. 

Israeli  ash  Woman.  Chaldean  Woman. 

Chorus  of  Youths  and  Virgins. 
Scene.  —  The  banks oj 'the  River  Euphrates,  near  Bafylou.] 

ACT   I. 

SCENE. — Israelites  sitting  on  the  banks  of  the 
Euphrates. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

E  captive  tribes,  that  hourly  work  and 
weep 
Where  flows  Euphrates  murmuring  to 
the  deep, 

Suspend  awhile  the  task,  the  tear  suspend, 
And  turn  to  God,  your  P'ather  and  your  Friend. 
Insulted,  chain'd,  and  all  the  world  a  foe, 
Our  God  alone  is  all  we  boast  below. 

[*  The  Captivity  was  set  to  music,  but  never  performed. 
It  was  'first  printed  in  the  Miscellaneous  Works  (trade 
edition),  1820.  In  1837,  Prior  printed  it  again  from  another 
MS.  (Miscellaneous  Works,  1837).  It  is  here  given  mainly  as 
reproduced  by  Mr.  Bolton  Corney  from  the  second  version, 
Author's  MS.  Two  of  the  songs,  with  variations,  were  pub- 
lished with  The  Haunch  of  Venison,  1776.I 


i34  rOEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

CHORUS   OF   ISRAELITES. 
Our  God  is  all  we  boast  below, 

To  Him  we  turn  our  eyes  ; 
And  every  added  weight  of  woe 
Shall  make  our  homage  rise. 

And  though  no  temple  richly  drest, 

Nor  sacrifice  is  here  ; 
We'll  make  His  temple  in  our  breast, 

And  offer  up  a  tear. 

SECOND    PROPHET. 
RECITATIVE. 
That  strain  once  more  ;  it  bids  remembrance  rise, 
And  calls  my  long-lost  country  to  mine  eyes. 
Ye  fields  of  Sharon,  drest  in  flowery  pride, 
Ye  plains  where  Jordan  rolls  its  glassy  tide, 
Ye  hills  of  Lebanon,  with  cedars  crown'd, 
Ye  Gileacl  groves,  that  fling  perfumes  around, 
These  hills  how  sweet,  those  plains  how  wondrous 

fair, 
But  sweeter  still  when  Heaven  was  with  us  there  ! 

AIR. 

O  Memory  !  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain  ; 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain  : 

Hence,  deceiver  most  distressing  ! 

Seek  the  happy  and  the  free  : 
The  wretch  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 

Ever  wants  a  friend  in  thee. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  135 

FIRST   PROPHET. 
RECITATIVE. 
Yet  why  repine?  What  though  by  bonds  confin'd, 
Should  bonds  enslave  the  vigour  of  the  mind  ? 
Have  we  not  cause  for  triumph  when  we  see 
Ourselves  alone  from  idol-worship  free  ? 
Are  not  this  very  day  those  rites  begun 
Where  prostrate  folly  hails  the  rising  sun  ? 
Do  not  our  tyrant  lords  this  day  ordain 
For  superstitious  rites  and  mirth  profane  ? 
And  should  we  mourn  ?  should  coward  virtue  fly, 
When  impious  folly  rears  her  front  on  high  ? 
No  ;  rather  let  us  triumph  still  the  more, 
And  as  our  fortune  sinks,  our  wishes  soar. 

AIR. 
The  triumphs  that  on  vice  attend 
Shall  ever  in  confusion  end  ; 
The  good  man  suffers  but  to  gain, 
And  every  virtue  springs  from  pain  : 

As  aromatic  plants  bestow 
No  spicy  fragrance  while  they  grow  ; 
But  crush'd,  or  trodden  to  the  ground, 
Diffuse  their  balmy  sweets  around. 

SECOND   PROPHET. 
RECITATIVE. 

But  hush,  my  sons,  our  tyrant  lords  are  near, 
The  sound  of  barbarous  mirth  offends  mine  ear  ; 
Triumphant  music  floats  along  the  vale, 
Near,  nearer  still,  it  gathers  on  the  gale  ; 


136  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

The  growing  note  their  near  approach  declares  ! 
Desist,  my  sons,  nor  mix  the  strain  with  theirs. 

Enter  Chaldean  Friesls  attended. 

FIRST    PRIEST. 
AIR. 

Come  on,  my  companions,  the  triumph  display, 

Let  rapture  the  minutes  employ  ; 
The  sun  calls  us  out  on  this  festival  day, 

And  our  monarch  partakes  of  our  joy. 

Like  the  sun,  our  great  monarch  all  pleasure  sup- 
plies, 

Both  similar  blessings  bestow  ; 
The  sun  with  his  splendour  illumines  the  skies, 

And  our  monarch  enlivens  below. 

AIR. 
CHALDEAN    WOMAN. 

Haste,  ye  sprightly  sons  of  pleasure, 
Love  presents  its  brightest  treasure, 
Leave  all  other  sports  for  me. 

A   CHALDEAN    ATTENDANT. 

Or  rather,  love's  delights  despising, 
Haste  to  raptures  ever  rising, 

Wine  shall  bless  the  brave  and  free. 

SECOND   PRIEST. 
Wine  and  beauty  thus  inviting, 
Each  to  different  joys  exciting, 
Whither  shall  my  choice  incline? 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  137 

FIRST   PRIEST. 

I'll  waste  no  longer  thought  in  choosing, 
But,  neither  love  nor  wine  refusing, 
I'll  make  them  both  together  mine. 


RECITATIVE. 

But  whence,  when  joys  should  brighten  o'er  the 

land, 
This  sullen  gloom  in  Judah's  captive  band  ? 
Ye  sons  of  Judah,  why  the  lute  unstrung? 
Or  why  those  harps  on  yonder  willows  hung  ? 
Come,  leave  your  griefs,  and  join  our  tuneful  choir, 
For  who  like  you  can  wake  the  sleeping  lyre  ? 

SECOND    I'ROrHET. 

Bow'd  down  with  chains,  the  scorn  of  all  mankind, 
To  want,  to  toil,  and  every  ill  consign'd, 
Is  this  a  time  to  bid  us  raise  the  strain, 
And  mix  in  rites  that  Heaven  regards  with  pain  ? 
No,  never.     May  this  hand  forget  each  art 
That  speeds  the  powers  of  music  to  the  heart, 
Ere  I  forget  the  land  that  gave  me  birth, 
Or  join  with  sounds  profane  its  sacred  mirth  ! 

FIRST    PRIEST. 

Insulting  slaves  !  if  gentler  methods  fail, 
The  whip  and  angry  tortures  shall  prevail. 

[Exeunt  Chaldeans. 

FIRST   PROPHET. 
Why,  let  them  come,  one  good  remains  to  cheer — 
We  fear  the  Lord,  and  know  no  other  fear. 


138  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

CHORUS. 
Can  whips  or  tortures  hurt  the  mind 
On  God's  supporting  breast  reclin'd  ? 
Stand  fast,  and  let  our  tyrants  see 
That  fortitude  is  victory. 

End  of  the  First  Act. 


M ISC  EL  L  A  NEO  US  PIECES. 


i39 


ACT    II. 


Scene. — As  before. 

CHORUS   OF   ISRAELITES. 

PEACE  of  mind,  thou  lovely  guest ! 
Thou  softest  soother  of  the  breast ! 

Dispense  thy  balmy  store  ! 
Wing  all  our  thoughts  to  reach  the  skies, 
Till  earth,  diminish'd  to  our  eyes, 
Shall  vanish  as  we  soar. 


FIRST   PRIEST. 
RECITATIVE. 
No  more  !    Too  long  has  justice  been  delay'd, 
The  king's  commands  must  fully  be  obey'd  ; 
Compliance  with  his  will  your  peace  secures, 
Praise  but  our  gods,  and  every  good  is  yours. 
But  if,  rebellious  to  his  high  command, 
You  spurn  the  favours  offer'd  at  his  hand, 
Think,  timely  think,  what  ills  remain  behind  ; 
Reflect,  nor  tempt  to  rage  the  royal  mind. 


SECOND    PRIEST. 
AIR. 

Fierce  is  the  whirlwind  howling 
O'er  Afric's  sandy  plain, 

And  fierce  the  tempest  rolling 
Along  the  furrow 'd  main. 


x4o  POEMS  OP  GOLDSMITH. 

But  storms  that  fly, 

To  rend  the  sky, 
Every  ill  presaging, 

Less  dreadful  show 

To  worlds  below, 
Than  angry  monarch's  raging. 

ISRAELITISH    WOMAN. 
RECITATIVE. 
Ah  me  !  what  angry  terrors  round  us  grow, 
How  shrinks  my  soul  to  meet  the  threaten'd  blow  ! 
Ye  prophets,  skill'd  in  Heaven's  eternal  truth, 
Forgive  my  sex's  fears,  forgive  my  youth  ! 
If  shrinking  thus,  when  frowning  power  appears 
I  wish  for  life,  and  yield  me  to  my  fears  : 
Let  us  one  hour,  one  little  hour  obey  ; 
To-morrow's  tears  may  wash  our  stains  away. 

AIR. 
To  the  last  moment  of  his  breath 

On  hope  the  wretch  relies ; 
And  e'en  the  pang  preceding  death 
Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  gleaming  taper's  light, 
Adorns  and  cheers  our  way  ; 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 
Emits  a  brighter  ray. 

SECOND    PRIEST. 
RECITATIVE. 
Why  this  delay  ?  at  length  for  joy  prepare. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  141 

I  read  your  looks,  and  see  compliance  there. 
Come,  raise  the  strain,  and  grasp  the   full-ton'd 

lyre— 
The  time,  the  theme,  the  place,  and  all  conspire. 

CHALDEAN    WOMAN. 
AIR. 

See  the  ruddy  morning  smiling, 
Hear  the  grove  to  bliss  beguiling; 
Zephyrs  through  the  valley  playing, 
Streams  along  the  meadow  straying. 

FIRST    PRIEST. 

While  these  a  constant  revel  keep, 
Shall  reason  only  bid  me  weep  ? 
Hence,  intruder  !  we'll  pursue 
Nature,  a  better  guide  than  you. 

SECOND   PRIEST. 
Every  moment,  as  it  flows, 
Some  peculiar  pleasure  owes  ; 
Then  let  us  providently  wise, 
Seize  the  debtor  as  it  flies. 

Think  not  to-morrow  can  repay 
The  pleasures  that  we  lose  to-day  ; 
To-morrow's  most  unbounded  store 
Can  but  pay  its  proper  score. 

FIRST   PRIEST. 
RECITATIVE. 
But  hush  !  see,  foremost  of  the  captive  choir, 
The  master-prophet  grasps  his  full-toned  lyre. 


i42  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Mark  where  he  sits  with  executing  art, 

Feels  for  each  tone  and  speeds  it  to  the  heart ; 

See  inspiration  fills  his  rising  form, 

Awful  as  clouds  that  nurse  the  growing  storm. 

And  now  his  voice,  accordant  to  the  string, 

Prepares  our  monarch's  victories  to  sing. 

FIRST    TROrHET. 
AIR. 

From  north,  from  south,  from  east,  from  west, 

Conspiring  foes  shall  come  ; 
Tremble,  thou  vice-polluted  breast ; 

Blasphemers,  all  be  dumb. 

The  tempest  gathers  all  around, 

On  Babylon  it  lies  ; 
Down  with  her  !  down,  down  to  the  ground  ; 

She  sinks,  she  groans,  she  dies. 

SECOND    FRORIIET. 

Down  with  her,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust, 

Ere  yonder  setting  sun  ; 
Serve  her  as  she  hath  serv'd  the  just  ! 

'Tis  fix'd — It  shall  be  done. 

FIRST    PRIEST. 
RECITATIVE. 
Enough  !  when  slaves  thus  insolent  presume, 
The  king  himself  shall  judge,  and  fix  their  doom. 
Short-sighted  wretches  !  have  not  you,  and  all, 
Beheld  our  power  in  Zedekiah's  fall  ? 
To  yonder  gloomy  dungeon  turn  your  eyes  ; 
Mark  where  dethron'd  your  captive  monarch  lies, 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  143 

Depriv'd  of  sight,  and  rankling  in  his  chain  ; 
He  calls  on  death  to  terminate  his  pain. 
Yet  know,  ye  slaves,  that  still  remain  behind 
More  ponderous  chains,  and  dungeons  more  con- 
fined. 

CHORUS. 
Arise,  All-potent  Ruler,  rise, 

And  vindicate  thy  people's  cause  ; 
Till  every  tongue  in  every  land 

Shall  offer  up  unfeign'd  applause. 

End  of  the  Second  Act. 


M4 


POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


ACT   III. 

Scene. — As  before. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 
RECITATIVE. 

ES,  my  companions,  Heaven's  decrees 
are  past, 
And  our  fix'd  empire  shall  for  ever  last  : 
In  vain  the  madd'ning  prophet  threatens 
woe, 
In  vain  rebellion  aims  her  secret  blow  ; 
Still  shall  our  fame  and  growing  power  be  spread, 
And  still  our  vengeance  crush  the  guilty  head. 


AIR. 

Coeval  with  man 
Our  empire  began, 
And  never  shall  fall 
Till  ruin  shakes  all. 
With  the  ruin  of  all, 
Shall  Babylon  fall. 

SECOND    [FIRST]    PROniET. 
RECITATIVE. 

'Tis  thus  that  pride  triumphant  rears  the  head, 
A  little  while,  and  all  their  power  is  fled. 
But  ha  !  what  means  yon  sadly  plaintive  train, 
That  this  way  slowly  bends  along  the  plain  ? 
And  now,  methinks,  a  pallid  corse  they  bear 
To  yonder  bank,  and  rest  the  body  there. 


MISCELLANEO  US  PIECES. 

Alas  !  too  well  mine  eyes  observant  trace 
The  last  remains  of  Judah's  royal  race. 
Our  monarch  falls,  and  now  our  fears  are  o'er, 
The  wretched  Zedekiah  is  no  more. 


AIR. 
Ye  wretches  who  by  fortune's  hate 

In  want  and  sorrow  groan, 
Come  ponder  his  severer  fate 

And  learn  to  bless  your  own. 

Ye  sons,  from  fortune's  lap  supplied, 

Awhile  the  bliss  suspend  ; 
Like  yours,  his  life  began  in  pride, 

Like  his,  your  lives  may  end. 

SECOND    PROPHET. 
RECITATIVE. 
Behold  his  squalid  corse  with  sorrow  worn, 
Mis  wretched  limbs  with  ponderous  fetters  torn; 
Those  eyeless  orbs  that  shock  with  ghastly  glare 
These  ill-becoming  robes,  and  matted  hair  ! 
And  shall  not  Heaven  for  this  its  terrors  show, 
And  deal  its  angry  vengeance  on  the  foe  ? 
How  long,  how  long,  Almighty  Lord  of  all, 
Shall  wrath  vindictive  threaten  ere  it  fall  ! 


ISRAEI.ITISH   WOMAN. 
AIR. 

As  panting  flies  the  hunted  hind, 
Where  brooks  refreshing  stray  ; 
L 


146  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

And  rivers  through  the  valley  wind, 
That  stop  the  hunter's  way  ; 

Thus  we,  0  Lord,  alike  distress'd, 

For  streams  of  mercy  long ; 
Those  streams  that  cheer  the  sore  oppress'd, 

And  overwhelm  the  strong. 

FIRST  FROrHET. 
RECITATIVE. 

But  whence  that  shout  ?  Good  heavens  !  amaze 

ment  all  ! 
See  yonder  tower  just  nodding  to  the  fall : 
See  where  an  army  covers  all  the  ground, 
Saps  the  strong  wall  and  pours  destruction  round  ;— 
The  ruin  smokes,  destruction  pours  along — 
How  low  the  great,  how  feeble  are  the  strong  ! 
The  foe  prevails,  the  lofty  walls  recline — 
Oh,  God  of  hosts,  the  victory  is  Thine  1 

CHORUS  OF   ISRAELITES. 
Down  with  her,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust ; 

Let  vengeance  be  begun  ; 
Serve  her  as  she  hath  serv'd  the  just, 

And  let  Thy  Will  be  done. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 
RECITATIVE. 
All,  all  is  lost.     The  Syrian  army  fails, 
Cyrus,  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  prevails  ! 
Save  us,  O  Lord  !  to  Thee,  though  late,  we  pray  ; 
And  give  repentance  but  an  hour's  delay. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  ,47 

SECOND  PRIEST. 
AIR. 

Thrice  happy,  who  in  happy  hour 
To  Heaven  their  praise  bestow, 

And  own  His  all-consuming  power 
Before  they  feel  the  blow  ! 

FIRST  PROPHET. 
RECITATIVE. 

Now,    now's   our   time !    ye   wretches   bold   and 

blind, 
Brave  but  to  God,  and  cowards  to  mankind, 
Too  late  you  seek  that  power  unsought  before, 
Your  wealth,  your  pride,  your  empire,  are  no  more. 

AIR. 

O  Lucifer  !  thou  son  of  morn, 
Alike  of  Heaven  and  man  the  foe  ; 

Heaven,  men,  and  all, 

Now  press  thy  fall, 
And  sink  thee  lowest  of  the  low. 

SECOND  PRIliST  [PROPHET?] 

O  Babylon,  how  art  thou  fallen— 
Thy  fall  more  dreadful  from  delay  ; 

Thy  streets  forlorn 

To  wilds  shall  turn, 
Where  toads  shall  pant,  and  vultures  prey  ! 

FIRST  PROPHET. 
RECITATIVE. 
Such  be  their  fate.     But  listen  !  from  afar 


t4S  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

The  clarion's  note  proclaims  the  finish'd  war  ! 

Cyrus,  our  great  restorer,  is  at  hand, 

And  this  way  leads  his  formidable  band. 

Now  give  your  songs  of  Zion  to  the  wind, 

And  hail  the  benefactor  of  mankind  : 

He  comes  pursuant  to  divine  decree, 

To  chain  the  strong,  and  set  the  captive  free. 

CHORUS    OF    YOUTHS. 
Rise  to  raptures  past  expressing. 

Sweeter  from  remember'd  woes  ; 
Cyrus  comes,  our  wrongs  redressing, 

Comes  to  give  the  world  repose. 

CHORUS   OF   VIRGINS. 

Cyrus  comes,  the  world  redressing, 
Love  and  pleasure  in  his  train  ; 

Comes  to  heighten  every  blessing, 
Comes  to  soften  every  pain. 

CHORUS   OF   YOUTHS   AND    VIRGINS. 

Hail  to  him  with  mercy  reigning, 

Skill'd  in  every  peaceful  art ; 
Who,  from  bonds  our  limbs  unchaining, 

Only  binds  the  willing  heart. 

LAST   CHORUS. 

Cut  chief  to  Thee,  our  God,  our  Father,  Friend, 
Let  praise  be  given  to  all  eternity  ; 

O  Thou,  without  beginning,  without  end — 
Let  us,  and  all,  begin  and  end  in  Thee  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  P/ECES.  149 


VERSES  IN  RErLY  TO  AN  INVITATION 
TO   DINNER   AT  DR.   BAKER'S.1 

'  This  is  a  poem  !    This  is  a  copy  of  verses  ! 

OUR  mandate  I  got, 
You  may  all  go  to  pot ; 
Had  your  senses  been  right, 
You'd  have  sent  before  night ; 

As  I  hope  to  be  saved, 

I  put  off  being  shaved  ; 

For  I  could  not  make  bold, 

While  the  matter  was  cold, 

To  meddle  in  suds, 

Or  to  put  on  my  duds  ; 

So  tell  Horneck  2  and  Nesbitt,3 

And  Baker4  and  his  bit, 

And  Kauffman3  beside, 

And  the  Jessamy  Bride,0 

t1  Prior  first  printed  this  in  the  Miscellaneous  Works  of 
1337,  iv,   132,  having  obtained  it  from  Major-General  Sir 
H.  E.  Bunbury,  Bart.,  son  of  H.  W.  Bunbury,  the  artist. 
(See  note  1  to  p.  152.)] 
[2  Mrs.  Horneck,  widow  of  Captain  Kane  Horneck.] 
[3  Mr.  Thrale's  brother-in-law.] 

[4  Dr.  (afterwards  Sir)  George  Baker,  Reynolds's  doctor.] 
[5  Angelica  Kauffman,  the  artist,  17.10-1S.j7.] 
tG   Mrs.  Horneck's  younger  daughter,  Mary.] 


i5o  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

With  the  rest  of  the  crow, 
The  Reynoldses  two,1 
Little  Comedy's  face,2 
And  the  Captain  in  lace,3 
(By-the-bye  you  may  tell  him, 
I  have  something  to  sell  him  ; 
Of  use  I  insist, 
When  he  comes  to  enlist. 
Your  worships  must  know 
That  a  few  days  ago, 
An  order  went  out, 
For  the  foot-guards  so  stout 
To  wear  tails  in  high  taste, 
Twelve  inches  at  least  : 
Now  I've  got  him  a  scale 
To  measure  each  tail, 
To  lengthen  a  short  tail, 
And  a  long  one  to  curtail.)— 
Yet  how  can  I  when  vext, 
Thus  stray  from  my  text  ? 
Tell  each  other  to  rue 
Your  Devonshire  crew, 
For  sending  so  late 
To  one  of  my  state. 
But  'tis  Reynolds's  way 
From  wisdom  to  stray, 
And  Angelica's  whim 
To  be  frolick  like  him, 


t1   Sir  Joshua  and  his  sister.  ] 

[2  Mrs.  Horneck's  elder  daughter,  Catherine.    (See  notes 

P.  152-)] 

[3  Captain  Charles  Homeck,  Mrs.  Horneck's  son.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  151 

But  alas  !  your  good  worships,  how  could  they  be 
wiser, 

When  both  have  been  spoil'd  in  to-day's  Adver- 
tiser i  l 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

[1  An  allusion  to  some  complimentary  verses  which  ap- 
peared in  that  paper.J 


i52  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

LETTER   IN    PROSE    AND   VERSE 
TO    MRS.   BUNBURY.1 

Madam, 

READ  your  letter  with  all  that  allow- 
ance which  critical  candour  could 
require,  but  after  all  find  so  much  to 
object  to,  and  so  much  to  raise  my  in- 
dignation, that  I  cannot  help  giving  it  a  serious 
answer. 

I  arn  not  so  ignorant,  Madam,  as  not  to  see 
there  are  many  sarcasms  contained  in  it,  and  sole- 
cisms also.  (Solecism  is  a  word  that  comes  from 
the  town  of  Soleis  in  Attica,  among  the  Greeks, 
built  by  Solon,  and  applied  as  we  use  the  word 
Kidderminster  for  curtains  from  a  town  also  of 
that  name  ; — but  this  is  learning  you  have  no  taste 
for  !)— I  say,  Madam,  there  are  sarcasms  in  it,  and 
solecisms  also.  But,  not  to  seem  an  ill-natured 
critic,  I'll  take  leave  to  quote  your  own  words, 
and  give  you  my  remarks  upon  them  as  they 
occur.     You  begin  as  follows  : — 

'  I  hope,  my  good  Doctor,  you  soon  will  be  here, 
And  your  spring-velvet  coat  very  smart  will  appear, 
To  open  our  ball  the  first  day  of  the  year.'  2 

['  This  letter,  "  probably  written  in  1773  or  1774,"  was  first 
printed  by  Prior  in  the  Miscellaneous  Works,  1837,  iv,  148. 
It  was  addressed  to  the  "Little  Comedy"  of  p.  150,  by  this 
time  married  to  II.  W.  Bunbury,  the  artist.] 

[-'  Mrs.  liunbi:ry  had  apparently  invited  the  poet  (in  rhyme) 
to  spend  Christinas  at  the  family  seat  of  Great  Barton  in 
Suffolk.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  153 

Pray,  Madam,  where  did  you  ever  find  the 
epithet  'good,'  applied  to  the  title  of  Doctor? 
Had  you  called  me  'learned  Doctor,'  or  'grave 
Doctor,'  or  'noble  Doctor,'  it  might  be  allowable, 
because  they  belong  to  the  profession.  But,  not 
to  cavil  at  trifles,  you  talk  of  my  '  spring- velvet 
coat,'  and  advise  me  to  wear  it  the  first  day  in  the 
year, — that  is,  in  the  middle  of  winter  ! — a  spring- 
velvet  in  the  middle  of  winter  !  !  !  That  would  be 
a  solecism  indeed  !  and  yet,  to  increase  the  incon- 
sistence, in  another  part  of  your  letter  you  call  me 
a  beau.  Now,  on  one  side  or  other,  you  must  be 
wrong.  If  I  am  a  beau,  I  can  never  think  of 
wearing  a  spring-velvet  in  winter  :  and  if  I  am 
not  a  beau,  why  then,  that  explains  itself.  But 
let  me  go  on  to  your  two  next  strange  lines  : — 

'And  bring  with  you  a  wig,  that  is  modish  and  gay, 
To  dance  with  the  girls  that  are  makers  of  hay.' 

The  absurdity  of  making  hay  at  Christmas  you 
yourself  seem  sensible  of :  you  say  your  sister  will 
laugh  ;  and  so  indeed  she  well  may  !  The  Latins 
have  an  expression  for  a  contemptuous  sort  cf 
laughter,  '  Naso  contemnere  adunco ' ;  that  is,  to 
laugh  with  a  crooked  nose.  She  may  laugh  at 
you  in  the  manner  of  the  ancients  if  she  thinks  fit. 
But  now  I  come  to  the  most  extraordinary  of  all 
extraordinary  propositions,  which  is,  to  take  your 
and  your  sister's  advice  in  playing  at  loo.  The 
presumption  of  the  offer  raises  my  indignation 
beyond  the  bounds  of  prose  ;  it  inspires  me  at 
once  with  verse  and  resentment.  I  take  advice  ! 
and  from  whom  ?    You  shall  hear. 


i54  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

First  let  me  suppose,  what  may  shortly  be  true, 
The  company  set,  and  the  word  to  be,  Loo  ; 
All  smirking,  and  pleasant,  and  big  with  adventure, 
And  ogling  the  stake  which  is  fix'd  in  the  centre. 
Round  and  round  go  the  cards,  while  I  inwardly 

damn 
At  never  once  finding  a  visit  from  Pam. 
I  lay  down  my  stake,  apparently  cool, 
While  the  harpies  about  me  all  pocket  the  pool. 
I  fret  in  my  gizzard,  yet,  cautious  and  sly, 
I  wish  all  my  friends  may  be  bolder  than  I  : 
Yet  still  they  sit  snug,  not  a  creature  will  aim 
By  losing  their  money  to  venture  at  fame. 
'Tis  in  vain  that  at  niggardly  caution  I  scold, 
'Tis  in  vain  that  I  flatter  the  brave  and  the  bold  : 
All  play  their  own  way,  and  they  think  me  an  ass, — 
'  What  does  Mrs.  Bunbury  ? '     'I,  Sir ?    I  pass.' 
'  Pray  what  does  Miss  Horneck?1  take  courage, 

come  do,' — ■ 
'  Who,  I?  let  me  see,  Sir,  why  I  must  pass  too.' 
Mr.  Bunbury  frets,  and  I  fret  like  the  devil, 
To  see  them  so  cowardly,  lucky,  and  civil. 
Yet  still  I  sit  snug,  and  continue  to  sigh  on, 
Till  made  by  my  losses  as  bold  as  a  lion, 
I  venture  at  all, — while  my  avarice  regards 
The  whole  pool  as  my  own — '  Come,  give  me  five 

cards.' 
'Well  done  ! '  cry  the  ladies  ;  '  Ah,  Doctor,  that's 

good  ! 
The  pool's  very  rich — ah  !  the  Doctor  is  loo'd  ! ' 

f1  Mary  Horneck,  see  p.  149  and  note.  She  ultimately 
married  Colonel  Gwyn,  and  survived  until  1840.  Reynolds 
and  Hoppner  both  painted  her.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  155 

Thus  foil'd  in  my  courage,  on  all  sides  perplex'd, 
I  ask  for  advice  from  the  lady  that's  next  : 
'  Pray,  Ma'am,  be  so  good  as  to  give  your  advice  ; 
Don't  you  think  the  best  way  is  to  venture  for't 

twice  ?' 
'I  advise,'  cries  the  lady,  'to  try  it,  I  own. — 
Ah  !   the  Doctor  is  loo'd  !     Come,   Doctor,   put 

down.' 
Thus,  playing,  and  playing,    I   still   grow   more 

eager, 
And   so  bold,   and   so  bold,   I'm  at  last  a  bold 

beggar. 
Now,  ladies,  I  ask,  iflaw-matters  you're  skill'd  in, 
Whether  crimes  such  as  yours  should  not  come 

before  Fielding  ? ' 
For  giving  advice  that  is  not  worth  a  straw, 
May  well  be  call'd  picking  of  pockets  in  law  ; 
And  picking  of  pockets,  with  which  I  now  charge 

Is,  by  quinto  Elizabeth,  Death  without  Clergy. 

What  justice,  when  both  to  the  Old  Bailey  brought  ! 

By  the  gods,  I'll  enjoy  it ;  though  'tis  but  in 
thought  ! 

Both  are  plac'd  at  the  bar,  with  all  proper  de- 
corum, 

With  bunches  of  fennel,  and  nosegays  before  'em  ;2 

Both  cover  their  faces  with  mobs  and  all  that  ; 

But  the  judge  bids  them,  angrily,  take  off  their 
hat. 

When  uncover'd,  a  buzz  of  enquiry  runs  round,— 

f1  Sir  John  Fielding,  d.  1780,  Henry  Fielding's  blind  half- 
brother  and  successor  at  Bow  Street.] 

[2  A  practice  dating  from  the  goal-fever  of  1750.] 


i56  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

'  Pray  what   are   their  crimes  ?  ' — •'  They've  been 

pilfering  found.' 
'  But,    pray,    whom    have    they  pilfer'd  ? '  —  'A 

Doctor,  I  hear.' 
'  What,  yon  solemn-faced,  odd-looking  man  that 

stands  near  ! ' 
'The   same.' — 'What  a  pity!    how  does  it  sur- 
prise one  ! 
Two  handsomer  culprits  I  never  set  eyes  on  ! ' 
Then  their  friends  all  come  round  me  with  cring- 
ing and  leering, 
To  melt  me  to  pity,  and  soften  my  swearing. 
First    Sir   Charles l  advances   with   phrases  well 

strung, 
'  Consider,  dear  Doctor,  the  girls  are  but  young.' 
'  The  younger  the  worse,'  I  return  him  again, 
'  It  shows  that  their  habits  are  all  dyed  in  grain.' 
'  But  then  they're  so  handsome,  one's  bosom   it 

grieves.' 
'What    signifies    handsome,    when     people    are 

thieves  ? ' 
'  But  where  is  your  justice  ?  their  cases  are  hard.' 
'What  signifies  justice?  I  want  the  reward. 

There's  the  parish  of  Edmonton  offers  forty 
pounds  ;  there's  the  parish  of  St.  Leonai-d,  Shore- 
ditch,  offers  forty  pounds  ;  there's  the  parish  of 
Tyburn,  from  the  Hog-in-the-Pound  to  St.  Giles's 
watchhouse,  offers  forty  pounds, — I  shall  have  all 
that  if  I  convict  them  !' — 


[l  Sir  Charles  Bunbury,  Henry  Bunbury's  elder  brother, 
died  s.p.  1821.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  157 

'But  consider   their   case,— it  may  yet  be  your 

own  ! 
And  see  how  they  kneel  !    Is  your  heart  made  of 

stone  ? ' 
This  moves  : — so  at  last  I  agree  to  relent, 
For  ten  pounds  in  hand,  and   ten  pounds  to  be 

spent. 

I  challenge  you  all  to  answer  this  :  I  tell  you,  you 
cannot.  It  cuts  deep  ; — but  now  for  the  rest  of 
the  letter  :  and  next— but  I  want  room— so  I 
believe  I  shall  battle  the  rest  out  at  Barton  some 
day  next  week. 

I  don't  value  you  all  ! 
O.  G. 


i58  FOE  MS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


VIDA'S   GAME   OF   CHESS. 


TRANSLATED. 


RMIES  of  box  that  sportively  engage 
And  mimic  real  battles  in  their  rage, 
Pleas'd   I   recount  ;    how,    smit   with 
glory's  charms, 
Two  mighty  Monarchs  met  in  adverse  arms, 
Sable  and  white  ;  assist  me  to  explore, 
Ye  Serian  Nymphs,  what  ne'er  was  sung  before. 
No  path  appears  :  yet  resolute  I  stray 
Where  youth  undaunted  bids  me  force  my  way. 
O'er  rocks  and  cliffs  while  I  the  task  pursue, 
Guide  me,  ye  Nymphs,  with  your  unerring  clue. 
For  you  the  rise  of  this  diversion  know, 
You  first  were  pleas'd  in  Italy  to  show 
This  studious  sport  ;  from  Scacchis  was  its  name, 
The  pleasing  record  of  your  Sister's  fame. 

When  Jove  through  Ethiopia's  parch'd  extent 
To  grace  the  nuptials  of  old  Ocean  went, 
Each  god  was  there  ;  and  mirth  and  joy  around 
To  shores  remote  diffus'd  their  happy  sound. 
Then  when  their  hunger  and  their  thirst  no  more 
Claim'd  their  attention,  and  the  feast  was  o'er ; 

['  This  translation  of  Marco  Vida's  Scacckice  Ludus  was 
first  printed  by  Mr.  Peter  Cunningham  in  1854,  from  a 
manuscript  in  Goldsmith's  hand-writing  then  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Mr.  1'iolton  Corney,  who,  with  Mr.  Forster,  believed 
it  to  be  by  Goldsmith.] 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  159 

Ocean,  with  pastime  to  divert  the  thought, 
Commands  a  painted  table  to  be  brought. 
Sixty-four  spaces  fill  the  chequer' d  square  ; 
Eight  in  each  rank  eight  equal  limits  share. 
Alike  their  form,  but  different  are  their  dyes, 
They  fade  alternate,  and  alternate  rise, 
White  after  black  ;  such  various  stains  as  those 
The  shelving  backs  of  tortoises  disclose. 
Then  to  the  Gods  that  mute  and  wondering  sate, 
You  see  (says  he)  the  field  prepared  for  fate. 
Here  will  the  little  armies  please  your  sight, 
With  adverse  colours  hurrying  to  the  fight : 
On  which  so  oft,  with  silent  sweet  surprise, 
The  Nymphs  and  Nereids  used  to  feast  their  eyes, 
And  all  the  neighbours  of  the  hoary  deep, 
When  calm  the  sea,  and  winds  were  lull'd  asleep. 
But  see,  the  mimic  heroes  tread  the  board  ; 
He  said,  and  straightway  from  an  urn  he  pour'd 
The  sculptur'd  box,  that  neatly  seem'd  to  ape 
The  graceful  figure  of  a  human  shape  : — 
Equal  the  strength  and  number  of  each  foe, 
Sixteen  appear'd  like  jet,  sixteen  like  snow. 
As  their  shape  varies  various  is  the  name, 
Different    their   posts,    nor   is   their  strength    the 

same. 
There  might  you  see  two  Kings  with  equal  pride 
Gird  on  their  arms,  their  Consorts  by  their  side  ; 
Here  the  Foot-warriors  glowing  after  fame, 
There  prancing  Knights  and   dexterous  Archers 

came 
And  Elephants,  that  on  their  backs  sustain 
Vast  towers  of  war,  and  fill  and  shake  the  plain. 
And  now  both  hosts,  preparing  for  the  storm 


160  POEMS  OF    GOLDSMITH. 

Of  adverse  battle,  their  encampments  form. 

In  the  fourth  space,  and  on  the  farthest  line, 

Directly  opposite  the  Monarchs  shine  ; 

The  swarthy  on  white  ground,  on  sable  stands 

The  silver  King ;  and  thence  they  send  commands. 

Nearest  to  these  the  Queens  exert  their  might ; 

One  the  left  side,  and  t'other  guards  the  right  : 

Where  each,  by  her  respective  armour  known, 

Chooses  the  colour  that  is  like  her  own. 

Then  the  young  Archers,  two  that  snowy- white 

Bend  the  tough  yew,  and  two  as  black  as  night ; 

(Greece  called  them  Mars's  favourites  heretofore, 

From  their  delight  in  war,  and  thirst  of  gore). 

These  on  each  side  the  Monarch  and  his  Queen 

Surround  obedient  ;  next  to  these  are  seen 

The  crested  Knights  in  golden  armour  gay  ; 

Their  steeds  by  turns  curvet,  or  snort  or  neigh. 

In  either  army  on  each  distant  wing 

Two  mighty  Elephants  their  castles  bring, 

Bulwarks  immense  !  and  then  at  last  combine 

Eight  of  the  Foot  to  form  the  second  line, 

The  vanguard  to  the  King  and  Queen  ;  from  far 

Prepared  to  open  all  the  fate  of  war. 

So  moved  the  boxen  hosts,  each  double-lined, 

Their  different  colours  floating  in  the  wind  : 

As  if  an  army  of  the  Gauls  should  go, 

With  their  white  standards,  o'er  the  Alpine  snow 

To  meet  in  rigid  fight  on  scorching  sands 

The  sun-burnt  Moors  and Memnon's swarthy  kinds. 

Then  Father  Ocean  thus  ;  you  see  them  here, 
Celestial  Powers,  what  troops,  what  camps  appear. 
Learn  now  the  sev'ral  orders  of  the  fray, 
For  ev'n  these  arms  their  stated  laws  obey. 


Miscellaneous  pieces.  161 

To  lead  the  fight,  the  Kings  from  all  their  bands 
Choose  whom  they  please  to  bear  their  great  com- 
mands. 
Should  a  black  hero  first  to  battle  go,  \ 

Instant  a  white  one  guards  against  the  blow  ;        [• 
But  only  one  at  once  can  charge  or  shun  the  foe. ) 
Their  gen'ral  purpose  on  one  scheme  is  bent, 
So  to  besiege  the  King  within  the  tent, 
That  there  remains  no  place  by  subtle  flight 
From  danger  free  ;  and  that  decides  the  fight. 
Meanwhile,  howe'er,  the  sooner  to  destroy 
Th'  imperial  Prince,  remorseless  they  employ 
Their  swords  in  blood  ;  and  whosoever  dare 
Oppose  their  vengeance,  in  the  ruin  share. 
Fate  thins  their  camp  ;  'the  parti-colour'd  field 
Widens  apace,  as  they  o'ercome  or  yield, 
But  the  proud  victor  takes  the  captive's  post ; 
There  fronts  the  fury  of  th'  avenging  host 
One  single  shock  :  and  (should  he  ward  the  blow), 
May  then  retire  at  pleasure  from  the  foe. 
The  Foot  alone  (so  their  harsh  laws  ordain) 
When  they  proceed  can  ne'er  return  again. 

But  neither  all  rush  on  alike  to  prove 
The  terror  of  their  arms  :  the  Foot  must  move 
Directly  on,  and  but  a  single  square  ; 
Yet  may  these  heroes,  when  they  first  prepare 
To  mix  in  combat  on  the  bloody  mead, 
Double  their  sally,  and  two  steps  proceed  ; 
But  when  they  wound,  their  swords  they  subtly 

guide 
With  aim  oblique,  and  slanting  pierce  his  side. 
But  the  great  Indian  beasts,  whose  backs  sustain 
Vast  turrets  arm'd,  when  on  the  redd'ning  plain 
M 


i62  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

They  join  in  all  the  terror  of  the  fight, 

Forward  or  backward,  to  the  left  or  right, 

Run  furious,  and  impatient  of  confine 

Scour  through  the  field,  and  threat  the  farthest 

line. 
Yet  must  they  ne'er  obliquely  aim  their  blows  ;  ^j 
That  only  manner  is  allow'd  to  those 
Whom  Mars  has  favour'd  most,   who  bend  the  j 

stubborn  bows. 
These  glancing  sideways  in  a  straight  career, 
Yet  each  confin'd  to  their  respective  sphere, 
Or  white  or  black,  can  send  th'  unerring  dart 
Wing'd  with  swift  death  to  pierce  through  ev'ry 

part. 
The  fiery  steed,  regardless  of  the  reins, 
Comes  prancing  on  ;  but  sullenly  disdains 
The  path  direct,  and  boldly  wheeling  round, 
Leaps  o'er  a  double  space  at  ev'ry  bound  : 
And  shifts    from    white   or   black    to   diff'rcnt 

colour 'd  ground. 
But  the  fierce  Queen,  whom  dangers  ne'er  dismay, 
The  strength  and  terror  of  the  bloody  day, 
In  a  straight  line  spreads  her  destruction  wide, 
To  left  or  right,  before,  behind,  aside. 
Yet  may  she  never  with  a  circling  course 
Sweep  to  the  battle  like  the  fretful  Horse  ; 
But  unconfin'd  may  at  her  pleasure  stray, 
If  neither  friend  nor  foe  block  up  the  way  ; 
For  to  o'erleap  a  warrior,  'tis  decreed 
Those  only  dare  who  curb  the  snorting  steed. 
With  greater  caution  and  majestic  state 
The  warlike  Monarchs  in  the  scene  of  fate 
Direct  their  motions,  since  for  these  appear 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  163 

Zealous  each  hope,  and  anxious  ev'ry  fear. 
While  the  King's  safe,  with  resolution  stern 
They  clasp  their  arms  ;  but  should  a  sudden  turn 
Make  him  a  captive,  instantly  they  yield, 
Resolv'd  to  share  his  fortune  in  the  field. 
He  moves  on  slow  ;  with  reverence  profound 
His  faithful  troops  encompass  him  around, 
And  oft,  to  break  some  instant  fatal  scheme, 
Rush  to  their  fates,  their  sov'reign  to  redeem  ; 
While  he,  unanxious  where  to  wound  the  foe, 
Need  only  shift  and  guard  against  a  blow. 
But  none,  however,  can  presume  t'  appear 
Within  his  reach,  but  must  his  vengeance  fear ; 
For  he  on  ev'ry  side  his  terror  throws  ; 
But  when  he  changes  from  his  first  repose, 
Moves  but  one  step,  most  awfully  sedate, 
Or  idly  roving,  or  intent  on  fate. 
These  are  the  sev'ral  and  establish 'd  laws: 
Now  see  how  each  maintains  his  bloody  cause. 
Here  paused  the  God,  but  (since  whene'er  they 
wage 
War  here  on  earth  the  Gods  themselves  engage 
In  mutual  battle  as  they  hate  or  love, 
And  the  most  stubborn  war  is  oft  above) 
Almighty  Jove  commands  the  circling  train 
Of  Gods  from  fav'ring  either  to  abstain, 
And  let  the  fight  be  silently  survey'd  ; 
And  added  solemn  threats  if  disobey'd. 
Then  call'd  he  Phcebus  from  among  the  Powers 
And  subtle  Hermes,  whom  in  softer  hours 
Fair  Maia  bore  :  youth  wanton 'd  in  their  face; 
Both  in  life's  bloom,  both  shone  with  equal  grace. 
Hermes  as  yet  had  never  wing'd  his  feet ; 


164  rOEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

As  yet  Apollo  in  his  radiant  seat 

Had  never  driv'n  his  chariot  through  the  air, 

Known  by  his  bow  alone  and  golden  hair. 

These  Jove  commission'd  to  attempt  the  fray, 

And  rule  the  sportive  military  clay  ; 

Bid  them  agree  which  party  each  maintains, 

And  promis'd  a  reward  that's  worth  their  pains. 

The  greater  took  their  seats  ;  on  either  hand 

Respectful  the  less  Gods  in  order  stand, 

But  careful  not  to  interrupt  their  play, 

By  hinting  when  t'  advance  or  run  away. 

Then  they  examine,  who  shall  first  proceed 
To  try  their  courage,  and  their  army  lead. 
Chance  gave  it  for  the  White,  that  he  should  go 
First  with  a  brave  defiance  to  the  foe. 
Awhile  he  ponder'd  which  of  all  his  train 
Should  bear  his  first  commission  o'er  the  plain  ; 
And  then  determin'd  to  begin  the  scene 
With  him  that  stood  before  to  guard  the  Queen. 
He  took  a  double  step  :  with  instant  care 
Does  the  black  Monarch  in  his  turn  prepare 
The  adverse  champion,  and  with  stern  command 
Bid  him  repel  the  charge  with  equal  hand. 
There  front  to  front,  the  midst  of  all  the  field, 
With  furious  threats  their  shining  arms  they  wield  ; 
Yet  vain  the  conflict,  neither  can  prevail 
While  in  one  path  each  other  they  assail. 
On  ev'ry  side  to  their  assistance  fly 
Their  fellow  soldiers,  and  with  strong  supply 
Crowd  to  the  battle,  but  no  bloody  stain 
Tinctures  their  armour  ;  sportive  in  the  plain 
Mars  plays  awhile,  and  in  excursion  slight 
Harmless  they  sally  forth,  or  wait  the  fight. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  ,65 

But  now  the  swarthy  Foot,  that  first  appear'd 
To  front  the  foe,  his  pond'rous  jav'lin  rear'd 
Leftward  aslant,  and  a  pale  warrior  slays, 
Spurns  him  aside,  and  boldly  takes  his  place. 
Unhappy  youth,  his  danger  not  to  spy  ! 
Instant  he  fell,  and  triumph'd  but  to  die. 
At  this  the  sable  King  with  prudent  care 
Remov'd  his  station  from  the  middle  square, 
And  slow  retiring  to  the  farthest  ground, 
There  safely  lurk'd,  with  troops  entrench 'd  around. 
Then  from  each  quarter  to  the  war  advance 
The  furious  Knights,  and  poise  the  trembling  lance  : 
By  turns  they  rush,  by  turns  the  victors  yield, 
Heaps  of  dead  Foot  choke  up  the  crimson'd  field : 
They  fall  unable  to  retreat ;  around 
The  clang  of  arms  and  iron  hoofs  resound. 

But  while  young  Phoebus  pleas'd  himself  to  view 
His  furious  Knight  destroy  the  vulgar  crew, 
Sly  Hermes  long'd  t'  attempt  with  secret  aim 
Some  noble  act  of  more  exalted  fame. 
For  this,  he  inoffensive  pass'd  along 
Through  ranks  of  Foot,  and  midst  the  trembling 

throng 
Sent  his  left  Horse,  that  free  without  confine 
Rov'd  o'er  the  plain,  upon  some  great  design 
Against  the  King  himself.     At  length  he  stood, 
And  having  fix'd  his  station  as  he  would, 
Threaten'd  at  once  with  instant  fate  the  Kin<7 

o 

And  th'  Indian  beast  that  guarded  the  right  wing. 

Apollo  sigh'd,  and  hast'ning  to  relieve 

The  straiten'd  Monarch,  griev'd  that  he  must  leave 

His  martial  Elephant  exposed  to  fate, 

And  view'd  with  pitying  eyes  his  dang'rous  staU 


166  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

First  in  his  thoughts  however  was  his  care 

To  save  his  King,  whom  to  the  neighbouring  square 

On  the  right  hand,   he  snatch'd  with  trembling 

flight ; 
At  this  with  fury  springs  the  sable  Knight, 
Drew  his  keen  sword,  and  rising  to  the  blow, 
Sent  the  great  Indian  brute  to  shades  below. 
O  fatal  loss  !  for  none  except  the  Queen 
Spreads  such  a  terror  through  the  bloody  scene. 
Yet  shall  you  ne'er  unpunish'd  boast  your  prize, 
The  Delian  God  with  stern  resentment  cries  ; 
And  wedg'd  him  round  with  foot,  and  pour'd  in 

fresh  supplies. 
Thus  close  besieg'd  trembling  he  cast  his  eye 
Around  the  plain,  but  saw  no  shelter  nigh, 
No  way  for  flight  ;  for  here  the  Queen  oppos'd, 
The  Foot  in  phalanx  there  the  passage  clos'd  : 
At  length  he  fell  ;  yet  not  unpleas'd  with  fate, 
Since  victim  t )  a  Queen's  vindictive  hate. 
With  grief  and  fury  burns  the  whiten'd  host, 
One  of  their  Tow'rS  thus  immaturely  lost. 
As  when  a  bull  has  in  contention  stern 
Lost  his  right  horn,  with  double  vengeance  burn 
His  thoughts  for  war,  with  blood  he's  cover'd  o'er, 
And  the  woods  echo  to  his  dismal  roar, 
So  look'd  the  flaxen  host,  when  angry  fate 
O'erturn'd  the  Indian  bulwark  of  their  state. 
Fir'd  at  this  great  success,  with  double  rage 
Apollo  hurries  on  his  troops  t'  engage, 
For  blood  and  havoc  wild  ;  and,  while  he  leads 
His  troops  thus  careless,  loses  both  his  steeds  : 
For  if  some  adverse  warriors  were  o'erthrown, 
He  little  thought  what  dangers  threat  his  own. 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  167 

But  slyer  Hermes  with  observant  <  yes  ~\ 

March'd  slowly  cautious,  and  at  distance  spies 
What  moves  must  next  succeed,   what  dangers  f 

next  arise. 
Often  would  he,  the  stately  Queen  to  snare, 
The  slender  Foot  to  front  her  arms  prepare, 
And  to  conceal  his  scheme  he  sighs  and  feigns 
Such  a  wrong  step  would  frustrate  all  his  pains. 
Just  then  an  Archer,  from  the  right-hand  view, 
At  the  pale  Queen  his  arrow  boldly  drew, 
Unseen  by  Phoebus,  who,  with  studious  thought, 
From  the  left  side  a  vulgar  hero  brought. 
But  tender  Venus,  with  a  pitying  eye, 
Viewing  the  sad  destruction  that  was  nigh, 
Wink'd  upon  Phcebus  (for  the  Goddess  sat 
By  chance  directly  opposite)  ;  at  that 
Rous'd  in  an  instant,  young  Apollo  threw 
His  eyes  around  the  field  his  troops  to  view  ; 
Perceiv'd  the  danger,  and  with  sudden  fright 
Withdrew  the  Foot  that  he  had  sent  to  fieht. 
And  sav'd  his   trembling  Queen  by  seasonable 

flight. 

But  Maia's  son  with  shouts  fill'd  all  the  coast : 
The  Queen,  he  cried,  the  important  Queen  is  lost. 
Phcebus,  howe'er,  resolving  to  maintain 
What  he  had  done,  bespoke  the  heavenly  train. 

What  mighty  harm,  in  sportive  mimic  fight, 
Is  it  to  set  a  little  blunder  right, 
When  no  preliminary  rule  debarr'd  ? 
If  you  henceforward,  Mercury,  would  guard 
Against  such  practice,  let  us  make  the  law  : 
And  whosoe'er  shall  first  to  battle  draw, 
Or  white,  or  black,  remorseless  let  him  go 


1 68  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

At  all  events,  and  dare  the  angry  foe. 

He  said,  and  this  opinion  pleas'd  around  : 
Jove  turn'd  aside,  and  on  his  daughter  frown'd, 
Unmark'd  by  Hermes,  who,  with  strange  surprise, 
Fretted  and  foam'd,  and  roll'd  his  ferret  eyes, 
And  but  with  great  reluctance  could  refrain 
From  dashing  at  a  blow  all  off  the  plain. 
Then  he  resolv'd  to  interweave  deceits, — ■ 
To  carry  on  the  war  by  tricks  and  cheats. 
Instant  he  call'd  an  Archer  from  the  throng, 
And  bid  him  like  the  courser  wheel  along  : 
Bounding  he  springs,  and  threats  the  pallid  Queen. 
The  fraud,  however,  was  by  Phcebus  seen  ; 
He  smil'd,  and,  turning  to  the  Gods,  he  said  : 
Though,  Hermes,  you  are  perfect  in  your  trade, 
And  you  can  trick  and  cheat  to  great  surprise, 
These  little  sleights  no  more  shall  blind  my  eyes ; 
Correct  them  if  you  please,  the  more  you  thus 

disguise. 

The  circle  laugh'd  aloud  ;  and  Maia's  son 
(As  if  it  had  but  by  mistake  been  done) 
Recall'd  his  Archer,  and  with  motion  due, 
Bid  him  advance,  the  combat  to  renew. 
But  Phoebus  watch'd  him  with  a  jealous  eye, 
Fearing  some  trick  was  ever  lurking  nigh, 
For  he  would  oft,  with  sudden  sly  design, 
Send  forth  at  once  two  combatants  to  join 
His  warring  troops,  against  the  law  of  arms, 
Unless  the  wary  foe  was  ever  in  alarms. 

Now  the  white  Archer  with  his  utmost  force 
Bent  the  tough  bow  against  the  sable  Horse, 
And  drove  him  from  the    Queen,  where  he  had 

stood 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  169 

Hoping  to  glut  his  vengeance  with  her  blood. 
Then  the  right  Elephant  with  martial  pride 
Rov'd  here  and  there,  and  spread  his  terrors  wide  : 
Glittering  in  arms  from  far  a  courser  came, 
Threaten'd  at  once  the  King  and  Royal  Dame ; 
Thought  himself  safe  when  he  the  post  had  seiz'd, 
And  with  the  future  spoils  his  fancy  pleas'd. 
Fir'd  at  the  danger  a  young  Archer  came, 
Rush'd  on  the  foe,  and  levell'd  sure  his  aim  ; 
(And  though   a   Pawn   his   sword   in   vengeance 

draws, 
Gladly  he'd  lose  his  life  in  glory's  cause). 
The  whistling  arrow  to  his  bowels  flew, 
And  the  sharp  steel  his  blood  profusely  drew  ; 
He  drops  the  reins,  he  totters  to  the  ground, 
And  his  life  issu'd  murm'ring  through  the  wound. 
Tierc'd  by  the  Foot,  this  Archer  bit  the  plain  ;  ^ 
The  Foot  himself  was  by  another  slain  ;  I 

And  with   inflam'd    revenge,   the  battle  bums  j 

again.  J 

Towers,  Archers,  Knights,  meet  on  the  crimson 

ground, 
And  the  field  echoes  to  the  martial  sound. 
Their   thoughts    are   heated,    and    their  courage 

fir'd, 
Thick  they  rush  on  with  double  zeal  inspir'd  ; 
Generals  and  Foot,  with  different  colour'd  mien,"\ 
Confus'dly  warring  in  the  camps  are  seen, — 
Valour  and  Fortune  meet  in  one  promiscuous  j 

scene.  J 

Now  these  victorious,  lord  it  o'er  the  field  ; 
Now  the  foe  rallies,  the  triumphant  yield  : 
Just  as  the  tide  of  battle  ebbs  or  flows. 


i7o  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

As  when  the  conflict  more  tempestuous  grows 
Between  the  winds,  with  strong   and  boisterous 

sweep 
They  plough  th'  Ionian  or  Atlantic  deep  ! 
By  turns  prevails  the  mutual  blustering  roar, 
And  the  big  waves  alternate  lash  the  shore. 

But  in  the  midst  of  all  the  battle  rag'd 
The  snowy  Queen,  with  troops  at  once  engag'd  ; 
She  fell'd  an  Archer  as  she  sought  the  plain,— 
As  she  retir'd  an  Elephant  was  slain  : 
To  right  and  left  her  fatal  spears  she  sent, 
Burst  through  the  ranks,  and  triumph'd   as  she 

went ; 
Through  arms  and  blood  she  seeks  a  glorious  fate, 
Pierces  the  farthest  lines,  and  nobly  great 
Leads  on  her  army  with  a  gallant  show, 
Breaks  the  battalions,  and  cuts  through  the  foe. 
At  length  the  sable  King  his  fears  betray'd, 
And  begg'd  his  military  consort's  aid  : 
With  cheerful  speed  she  flew  to  his  relief, 
And  met  in  equal  arms  the  female  chief. 

Who  first,  great  Queen,   and  who  at  last  did 
bleed? 
How  many  Whites  lay  gasping  on  the  mead  ? 
Half  dead,  and  floating  in  a  bloody  tide, 
Foot,  Knights,  and  Archer  lie  on  every  side. 
Who  can  recount  the  slaughter  of  the  day  ? 
How  many  leaders  threw  their  lives  away  ? 
The  chequer'd  plain  is  fill'd  with  dying  box, 
Havoc  ensues,  and  with  tumultuous  shocks 
The  different  colour'd  ranks  in  blood  engage, 
And  Foot  and  Horse  promiscuously  rage. 
With  nobler  courage  and  superior  might 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  171 

The  dreadful  Amazons  sustain  the  fight, 
Resolv'd  alike  to  mix  in  glorious  strife, 
Till  to  imperious  fate  they  yield  their  life. 

Meanwhile  each  Monarch,   in  a  neighbouring 
cell, 
Confin'd  the  warriors  that  in  battle  fell, 
There  watch'd  the  captives  with  a  jealous  eye, 
Lest,  slipping  out  again,  to  arms  they  fly. 
But  Thracian  Mars,  in  steadfast  friendship  join'd 
To  Hermes,  as  near  Phoebus  he  reclin'd, 
Observ'd  each  chance,  how  all  their  motions  bend, 
Resolv'd  if  possible  to  serve  his  friend. 
He  a  Foot-soldier  and  a  Knight  purloin'd 
Out  from  the  prison  that  the  dead  confin'd  ; 
And  slyly  push'd  'em  forward  on  the  plain  ;        ^ 
Th'  enliven'd  combatants  their  arms  regain, 
Mix  in  the  bloody  scene,  and  boldly  war  again.  J 

So  the  foul  hag,  in  screaming  wild  alarms, 
O'er  a  dead  carcase  muttering  her  charms 
(And  with  her  frequent  and  tremendous  yell 
Forcing  great  Hecate  from  out  of  hell), 
Shoots  in  the  corpse  a  new  fictitious  soul ;  ^ 

With  instant  glare  the  supple  eyeballs  roll,  \ 

Again  it  moves  and  speaks,  and  life  informs  the 
whole.  ' 

Vulcan  alone  discern'd  the  subtle  cheat ; 
And  wisely  scorning  such  a  base  deceit, 
Call'd  out  to  Phoebus.     Grief  and  rage  assail 
Phoebus  by  turns  ;  detected  Mars  turns  pale. 
Then  awful  Jove  with  sullen  eye  reprov'd 
Mars,  and  the  captives  order'd  to  be  mov'd 
To  their  dark  caves ;  bid  each  fictitious  spear 
Be  straight  recall'd,  and  all  be  as  they  were. 


172  FOX  MS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

And  now  both  Monarchs  with  redoubl'd  rage 
Led  on  their  Queens,  the  mutual  war  to  wage. 
O'er  all  the  field  their  thirsty  spears  they  send, 
Then  front  to  front  their  Monarchs  they  defend. 
But  lo  !  the  female  White  rush'd  in  unseen, 
And  slew  with  fatal  haste  the  swarthy  Queen  ; 
Yet,  soon,  alas  !  resign'd  her  royal  spoils, 
Snatch'd  by  a  shaft  from  her  successful  toils. 
Struck  at  the  sight,  both  hosts  in  wild  surprise 
Pour'd  forth  their  tears,  and  fill'd  the  air  with  cries  ; 
They  wept  and  sigh'd,  as  pass'd  the  fun'ral  train, 
As  if  both  armies  had  at  once  been  slain. 

And  now  each  troop  surrounds  its  mourning  chief, 
To  guard  his  person,  or  assuage  his  grief. 
One  is  their  common  fear  ;  one  stormy  blast 
Has  equally  made  havoc  as  it  pass'd. 
Not  all,  however,  of  their  youth  are  slain  ; 
Some  champions  yet  the  vig'rous  war  maintain. 
Three  Foot,  an  Archer,  and  a  stately  Tower, 
For  Phoebus  still  exert  their  utmost  power. 
Just  the  same  number  Mercury  can  boast, 
Except  the  Tower,  who  lately  in  his  post 
Unarm'd  inglorious  fell,  in  peace  profound, 
Pierced  by  an  Archer  with  a  distant  wound  ; 
But  his  right  Horse  retain'd  its  mettled  pride, — 
The  rest  were  swept  away  by  war's  strong  tide. 

But  fretful  Hermes,  with  despairing  moan, 
Griev'd  that  so  many  champions  were  o'erthroun, 
Yet  reassumes  the  fight ;  and  summons  round 
The  little  straggling  army  that  he  found, — ■ 
All  that  had  'scap'd  from  fierce  Apollo's  rage, — 
Resolv'd  with  greater  caution  to  engage 
In  future  strife,  by  subtle  wiles  (if  fate 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  173 

Should  give  him  leave)  to  save  his  sinking  state. 
The  sable  troops  advance  with  prudence  slow, 
Bent  on  all  hazards  to  distress  the  foe. 
More  cheerful  Phcebus,  with  unequal  pace, 
Rallies  his  arms  to  lessen  his  disgrace. 
But  what  strange  havoc  everywhere  has  been  ! 
A  straggling  champion  here  and  there  is  seen  ; 
And  many  are  the  tents,  yet  few  are  left  within. 

Th'  afflicted  Kings  bewail  their  consorts  dead, 
And  loathe  the  thoughts  of  a  deserted  bed  ; 
And  though  each  monarch  studies  to  improve 
The  tender  mem'ry  of  his  former  love, 
Their  state  requires  a  second  nuptial  tie. 
Hence  the  pale  ruler  with  a  love-sick  eye 
Surveys  th'  attendants  of  his  former  wife, 
And  offers  one  of  them  a  royal  life. 
These,  when  their  martial  mistress  had  been  slain, 
Weak  and  despairing  tried  their  arms  in  vain  ; 
Willing,  howe'er,  amidst  the  Black  to  go, 
They  thirst  for  speedy  vengeance  on  the  foe. 
Then  he  resolves  to  see  who  merits  best, 
By  strength  and  courage,  the  imperial  vest ; 
Points  out  the  foe,  bids  each  with  bold  design 
Pierce  through  the  ranks,  and  reach  the  deepest 

line  : 
For  none  must  hope  with  monarchs  to  repose 
But  who  can  first,  through  thick  surrounding  foes, 
Through  arms  and  wiles,  with  hazardous  essay, 
Safe  to  the  farthest  quarters  force  their  way. 
Fir'd  at  the  thought,  with  sudden,  joyful  pace 
They  hurry  on  ;  but  first  of  all  the  race 
Runs  the  third  right-hand  warrior  for  the  prize, — 
The  glitt'ring  crown  already  charms  her  eyes. 


i74  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Her  clear  associates  cheerfully  give  o'er  \ 

The  nuptial  chase  ;  and  swift  she  flies  before,        J- 
And  Glory  lent  her  wings,  and  the  reward  in  store.  J 
Nor  would  the  sable  King  her  hopes  prevent, 
For  he  himself  was  on  a  Queen  intent, 
Alternate,  therefore,  through  the  field  they  go. 
Hermes  led  on,  but  by  a  step  too  slow, 
His  fourth  left  Pawn  :    and  now  th'  advent'rous 

White 
Had  march'd  through  all,  and  gain'd  the  wish'd- 

for  site. 
Then  the  pleas'd  King  gives  orders  to  prepare 
The  crown,  the  sceptre,  and  the  royal  chair, 
And  owns  her  for  his  Queen  :  around  exult 
The  snowy  troops,  and  o'er  the  Black  insult. 
Hermes  burst  into  tears, — with  fretful  roar 
Fill'd  the  wide  air,  and  his  gay  vesture  tore. 
The  swarthy  Foot  had  only  to  advance 
One  single  step  ;  but  oh  !  malignant  chance  ! 
A  tower'd  Elephant,  with  fatal  aim, 
Stood  ready  to  destroy  her  when  she  came  : 
He  keeps  a  watchful  eye  upon  the  whole, 
Threatens  her  entrance,  and  protects  the  goal. 
Meanwhile  the  royal  new-created  bride, 
Pleas'd  with  her  pomp,  spread  death  and  terror  wide ; 
Like  lightning  through  the  sable  troops  she  flies, 
Clashes  her  arms,  and  seems  to  threat  the  skies. 
The  sable  troops  are  sunk  in  wild  affright, 
And  wish  th'  earth  op'ning  snatch'd  'em  from  her 

sight. 
In  burst  the  Queen,  with  vast  impetuous  swing  :  \ 
The  trembling  foes  come  swarming  round  the  v 

King,  j 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  175 


'} 


Where  in  the  midst  he  stood,  and  form  a  valian 

ring. 

So  the  poor  cows,  straggling  o'er  pasture  land, 
When  they  perceive  the  prowling  wolf  at  hand, 
Crowd  close  together  in  a  circle  full, 
And  beg  the  succour  of  the  lordly  bull ; 
They  clash  their  horns,  they  low  with   dreadful 

sound, 
And  the  remotest  groves  re-echo  round. 

But  the  bold  Queen,  victorious,  from  behind 
Pierces  the  foe  ;  yet  chiefly  she  design'd 
Against  the  King  himself  some  fatal  aim, 
And  full  of  war  to  his  pavilion  came. 
Now  here  she  rush'd,  now  there  ;  and  had  she  been 
But  duly  prudent,  she  had  slipp'd  between, 
With  course  oblique,  into  the  fourth  white  square, 
And  the  long  toil  of  war  had  ended  there, 
The  King  had  fall'n,  and  all  his  sable  state  ; 
And  vanquished  Hermes  curs'd  his  partial  fate. 
For  thence  with  ease  the  championess  might  go, 
Murder  the  King,  and  none  could  ward  the  blow, 

With  silence,  Hermes,  and  with  panting  heart, 
Perceiv'd  the  danger,  but  with  subtle  art 
(Lest  he  should  see  the  place)  spurs  on  the  foe, 
Confounds  his  thoughts,  and  blames  his  being  slow. 
For  shame  !  move  on  ;  would  you  for  ever  stay? 
What  sloth  is  this,  what  strange  perverse  delay  ? — 
How  could  you  e'er  my  little  pausing  blame  ? — 
What !  you  would  wait  till  night  shall  end  the  game? 
Phcebus,  thus  nettled,  with  imprudence  slew 
A  vulgar  Pawn,  but  lost  his  nobler  view. 
Young  Hermes  leap'd,  with  sudden  joy  elate  ; 
And  then,  to  save  the  monarch  from  his  fate, 


i76  rOE31S  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Led  on  his  martial  Knight,  who  stepp'd  between, 
Pleas'd  that  his  charge  was  to  oppose  the  Queen — 
Then,  pondering  how  the  Indian  beast  to  slay, 
That  stopp'd  the  Foot  from  making  farther  way, — 
From  being  made  a  Queen  ;  with  slanting  aim 
An  Archer  struck  him  ;  down  the  monster  came, 
And  dying  shook  the  earth  :  while  Phcebus  tries 
Without  success  the  monarch  to  surprise. 
The  Foot,  then  uncontroll'd  with  instant  pride, 
Seiz'd  the  last  spot,  and  mov'd  a  royal  bride. 
And  now  with  equal  strength  both  war  again, 
And  bring  their  second  wives  upon  the  plain  ; 
Then,  though  with  equal  views  each  hop'd  and 

fear'd, 
Yet,  as  if  every  doubt  had  disappear'd, 
As  if  he  had  the  palm,  young  Hermes  flies 
Into  excess  of  joy  ;  with  deep  disguise, 
Extols  his  own  Black  troops,  with  frequent  spite 
And  with  invective  taunts  disdains  the  White. 
Whom  Phcebus  thus  reprov'd  with  quick  return — 
As  yet  we  cannot  the  decision  learn 
Of  this  dispute,  and  do  you  triumph  now? 
Then  your  big  words  and  vauntings  I'll  allow, 
When  you  the  battle  shall  completely  gain  ; 
At  present  I  shall  make  your  boasting  vain. 
He  said,  and  forward  led  the  daring  Queen  ; 
Instant  the  fury  of  the  bloody  scene 
Rises  tumultuous,  swift  the  warriors  fly 
From  either  side  to  conquer  or  to  die. 
They  front  the  storm  of  war  ;  around  'em  Fear, 
Terror,  and  Death,  perpetually  appear. 
All  meet  in  arms,  and  man  to  man  oppose, 
Each  from  their  camp  attempts  to  drive  their  foes ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  i77 

Each  tries  by  turns  to  force  the  hostile  lines ; 
Chance  and  impatience  blast  their  best  designs. 
The  sable  Queen  spread  terror  as  she  went 
Through  the  mid  ranks :  with  more  reserv'd  intent 
The  adverse  dame  declin'd  the  open  fray, 
Arid  to  the  King  in  private  stole  away  : 
Then  took  the  royal  guard,  and  bursting  in, 
With  fatal  menace  close  besieg'd  the  King. 
Alarm'd  at  this,  the  swarthy  Queen,  in  haste, 
From  all  her  havoc  and  destructive  waste 
Broke  off,  and  her  contempt  of  death  to  show, 
Leap'd  in  between  the  monarch  and  the  foe, 
To  save  the  King  and  state  from  this  impending 

blow. 
But  Phcebus  met  a  worse  misfortune  here  : 
For  Hermes  now  led  forward,  void  of  fear, 
His  furious  Horse  into  the  open  plain, 
That   onward    chaf'd,    and   pranc'd,    and    paw'd 

amain. 
Nor  ceas'd  from  his  attempts  until  he  stood 
On  the  long-wish 'd-for  spot,  from  whence  he  could 
Slay  King  or  Queen.     O'erwhelm'd  with  sudden 

fears, 
Apollo  saw,  and  could  not  keep  from  tears. 
Now  all  seem'd  ready  to  be  overthrown  ; 
His  strength  was  wither'd,  ev'ry  hope  was  flown. 
Hermes,  exulting  at  this  great  surprise, 
Shouted  for  joy,  and  fill'd  the  air  with  cries  ; 
Instant  he  sent  the  Queen  to  shades  below, 
And  of  her  spoils  made  a  triumphant  show. 
But  in  return,  and  in  his  mid  career, 
Fell  his  brave  Knight,  beneath  the  Monarch's  spear, 
Phcebus,  however,  did  not  yet  despair, 
N 


i;8  POEMS    OF  GOLDSMITH. 

But  still  fought  on  with  courage  and  with  care. 
He  had  but  two  poor  common  men  to  show, 
And  Mars's  favourite  with  his  iv'ry  bow. 
The  thoughts  of  ruin  made  'em  dare  their  best 
To  save  their  King,  so  fatally  distress'd. 
But  the  sad  hour  rcquir'd  not  such  an  aid  ; 
And  Hermes  breath'd  revenge  where'er  he  stray'd. 
Fierce  comes  the  sable  Queen  with  fatal  threat, 
Surrounds  the  monarch  in  his  royal  seat  : 
Rush'd  here  and  there,  nor  rested  till  she  slew 
The  last  remainder  of  the  whiten'd  crew. 
Sole  stood  the  King,  the  midst  of  all  the  plain, 
Weak  and  defenceless,  his  companions  slain, 
As  when  the  ruddy  morn  ascending  high 
Has  chas'd  the  twinkling  stars  from  all  the  sky, 
Your  star,  fair  Venus,  still  retains  its  light, 
And,  loveliest,  goes  the  latest  out  of  sight. 
No  safety's  left,  no  gleams  of  hope  remain  ; 
Yet  did  he  not  as  vanquish'd  quit  the  plain, 
But  tried  to  shut  himself  between  the  foe, —         \ 
Unhurt  through  swords  and  spears  he  hoped  to  go,  [■ 
Until  no  room  was  left  to  shun  the  fatal  blow      i 
For  if  none  threat  en 'd  his  immediate  fate, 
And  his  next  move  must  ruin  all  his  state, 
All  their  past  toil  and  labour  is  in  vain,  ^ 

Vain  all  the  bloody  carnage  of  the  plain, — 
Neither  would  triumph  then,  the  laurel  neither  I 
gain.  J 

Therefore  through  each  void  space  and  desert  tent, 
By  different  moves  his  various  course  he  bent : 
The  Black  King  watch'd  him  with  observant  eye, 
Follow'd  him  close,  but  left  him  room  to  fly. 
Then  when  he  saw  him  take  the  farthest  line, 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES.  i7g 

He  sent  the  Queen  his  motions  to  confine, 
And  guard  the  second  rank,  that  he  could  go 
No  farther  now  than  to  that  distant  row. 
The  sable  monarch  then  with  cheerful  mien 
Approach'd,  but  always  with  one  space  between. 
But  as  the  King  stood  o'er  against  him  there, 
Helpless,  forlorn,  and  sunk  in  his  despair, 
The  martial  Queen  her  lucky  moment  knew, 
Seized  on  the  farthest  seat  with  fatal  view, 
Nor  left  th'  unhappy  King  a  place  to  flee  unto. 
At  length  in  vengeance  her  keen  sword  she  draws, 
Slew  him,  and  ended  thus  the  bloody  cause  : 
And    all    the    gods    around     approv'd   it    with 
applause. 

The  victor  could  not  from  his  insults  keep, 
But  laugh'd  and  sneer'd  to  see  Apollo  weep. 
Jove  call'd  him  near,  and  gave  him  in  his  hand 
The  powerful,  happy,  and  mysterious  wand 
By  which  the  Shades  are  call'd  to  purer  day, 
When  penal  fire  has  purged  their  sins  away  ; 
By  which  the  guilty  are  condemn'd  to  dwell 
In  the  dark  mansions  of  the  deepest  hell ; 
By  which  he  gives  us  sleep,  or  sleep  denies, 
And  closes  at  the  last  the  dying  eyes. 
Soon  after  this,  the  heavenly  victor  brought 
The  game  on  earth,  and  first  th'  Italians  taught. 

For  (as  they  say)  fair  Scacchis  he  espied 
Feeding  her  cygnets  in  the  silver  tide 
(Scacchis,  the  loveliest  Seriad  of  the  place), 
And  as  she  stray'd,  took  her  to  his  embrace. 
Then,  to  reward  her  for  her  virtue  lost, 
Gave  her  the  men  and  chcquer'd  board,  emboss'd 
With  gold  and  silver  curiously  inlay'd  ; 


i So  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

And  taught  her  how  the  game  was  to  be  play'J. 
Ev'n  now  'tis  honour'd  with  her  happy  name  ; 
And  Rome  and  all  the  world  admire  the  game. 
All  which  the  Seriads  told  me  heretofore, 
When  my  boy-notes  amus'd  the  Serian  shore. 


THE   GOOD-NATUR'D    MAN 
A  COMEDY. 


[The  Good-Natur'd  Man  was  produced  on  Friday,  the 
29th  January,  1768.  It  was  played  for  ten  nights  in  suc- 
cession, the  fifth  representation  being  "commanded  by  Their 
Majesties."  On  the  5th  February  it  was  published  in  octavo 
liyW.  Griffin,  of  Catherine-Street,  Strand,  with  the  following 
title: — The  Good Natur'd Ma/i:  A  Comedy.  As  Performed 
at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Covent-Garden.  By  Mr.  Gold- 
smith. The  price  was  one  shilling  and  sixpence.  The  pre- 
sent reprint  is  from  the  fifth  edition  which  appeared  in  the 
same  year  as  the  first.] 


PREFACE. 


HEN  I  undertook  to  write  a  comedy,  I 
confess  I  was  strongly  prepossessed  in 
favour  of  the  poets  of  the  last  age,  and 
strove  to  imitate  them.  The  term, 
genteel  comedy,  was  then  unknown  amongst  us, 
and  little  more  was  desired  by  an  audience,  than 
nature  and  humour,  in  whatever  walks  of  life  they 
were  most  conspicuous.  The  author  of  the  fol- 
lowing scenes  never  imagined  that  more  would  be 
expected  of  him,  and  therefore  to  delineate  cha- 
racter has  been  his  principal  aim.  Those  who 
know  anything  of  composition,  are  sensible,  that 
in  pursuing  humour,  it  will  sometimes  lead  us  into 
the  recesses  of  the  mean  ;  I  was  even  tempted  to 
look  for  it  in  the  master  of  a  spunging-house  :  but 
in  deference  to  the  public  taste,  grown  of  late, 
perhaps,  too  delicate,  the  scene  of  the  bailiffs 
was  retrenched  in  the  representation.1  In  defe- 
rence also  to  the  judgment  of  a  few  friends,  who 
think  in  a  particular  way,  the  scene  is  here  restored. 

[1  Vide  Act  iii,  pp.  47-55-] 


iS4  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

The  author  submits  it  to  the  reader  in  his  closet ; 
and  hopes  that  too  much  refinement  will  not  banish 
humour  and  character  from  ours,  as  it  has  already 
done  from  the  French  theatre.  Indeed  the  French 
comedy  is  now  become  so  very  elevated  and  senti- 
mental, that  it  has  not  only  banished  humour  and 
Moliire  from  the  stage,  but  it  has  banished  all 
spectators  too. 

Upon  the  whole,  the  author  returns  his  thanks  to 
the  public  for  the  favourable  reception  which  the 
"  Good-Natur'd  Man"  has  met  with:  and  to 
Mr.  Colman  in  particular,  for  his  kindness  to  it.1 
It  may  not  also  be  improper  to  assure  any,  who 
shall  hereafter  write  for  the  theatre,  that  merit,  or 
supposed  merit,  will  ever  be  a  sufficient  passport 
to  his  protection. 

f1  This  was  the  gratitudeof  success.  Colman  had  not  been 
particularly  kind  to  The  Good-Natur'd  Man.] 


PROLOGUE 


WRITTEN   BY  DR.   JOHNSON: 

SPOKEN   BY   MR.    BENSLEY. 

REST  by  the  load  of  life,  the  weary  mind 
Surveys  the  general  toil  of  human  kind  ; 
With  cool  submission  joins  the  labouring 
train, 

And  social  sorrow  loses  half  its  pain  : 
Our  anxious  Bard,1  without  complaint,  may  share 
This  bustling  season's  epidemic  care, 
Like  Caesar's  pilot,  dignified  by  fate, 
Tost  in  one  common  storm  with  all  the  great  ; 
Distrest  alike,  the  statesman  and  the  wit, 
When  one  a  Borough  courts,  and  one  the  Pit. 
The  busy  candidates  for  power  and  fame, 
Have  hopes,  and  fears,  and  wishes,  just  the  same  ; 
Disabled  both  to  combat,  or  to  fly, 

t1  This  Prologue,  as  spoken,  and  as  published  in  the  Pullic 
Advertiser  for  February  3,  1768,  differs  somewhat  from  the 
version  here  printed.  In  particular  "  Our  anxious  Bard  " 
was  originally  "  Our  little  Bard  " — an  epithet  which  could 
scarcely  have  gratified  the  author  of  the  Play.] 


i86  PLAY'S  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Must  hear  all  taunts,  and  hear  without  reply. 
Uncheck'd  on  both,  loud  rabbles  vent  their  rage, 
As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  a  cage. 
Th'  offended  burgess  hoards  his  angry  tale, 
For  that  blest  year  when  all  that  vote  may  rail ; 
Their  schemes  of  spite  the  poet's  foes  dismiss, 
Till  that  glad  night,  when  all  that  hate  may  hiss. 
This  day  the  powder'd  curls  and  golden  coat, 
Says  swelling  Crispin,  begg'd  a  cobbler's  vote. 
This  night,  our  wit,  the  pert  apprentice  cries, 
Lies  at  my  feet,  I  hiss  him,  and  he  dies. 
The  great,  'tis  true,  can  charm  th'  electing  tribe  ; 
The  bard  may  supplicate,  but  cannot  bribe. 
Yet  judg'd  by  those,  whose  voices  ne'er  were  sold, 
He  feels  no  want  of  ill-persuading  gold  ; 
But,  confident  of  praise,  if  praise  be  due, 
Trusts  without  fear,  to  merit,  and  to  you. 


DRAMATIS   PERSON/E.1 


MEN. 

Mr.  Honeywood, 

Mr.  Powell. 

Croaker, 

Mr.  Shuter. 

Lofty, 

Mr.  Woodward. 

Sir  William 

Hone) 

•wood, 

Mr.  Clarke. 

Leontine, 

Mr.  Bensley. 

Jarvis, 

Mr.  Dunstall. 

Butler, 

Mr.  Cushing. 

Bailiff, 

Mr.  R.  Smith. 

Dubardieu, 

Mr.  Holtom. 

Postboy, 

Mr.  Quick. 

WOMEN. 

Miss  Richland,  Mrs.  Bulklcy. 

Olivia,  Mrs.  Mattocks. 

Mrs.  Croaker,  Mrs.  Pitt. 

Garnet,  Mrs.  Green. 

Landlady,  Mrs.  White. 

Scene.— LONDON. 


[t  The  cast  given  is  that  of  the  piece  as  first  acted.] 


THE   GOOD-NATUR'D    MAN.1 


ACT   THE  FIRST. 

Scene,  An  Apartment  in  Young  Honeywood's 
House. 

Enter  Sir  William  Honeywood,  Jarvis. 

Sir  William. 
•  OOD  Jarvis,  make  no  apologies  for  this 
honest  bluntness.  Fidelity,  like  yours, 
is  the  best  excuse  for  every  freedom. 
Jarvis.  I  can't  help  being  blunt,  and 
being  very  angry  too,  when  I  hear  you  talk  of  dis- 
inheriting so  good,  so  worthy  a  young  gentleman 
as  your  nephew,  my  master.  All  the  world  loves 
him. 

Sir  Will.  Say  rather,  that  he  loves  all  the  world  ; 
that  is  his  fault. 

Ja>~vis.  I'm  sure  there  is  no  part  of  it  more  dear 
to  him  than  you  are,  though  he  has  not  seen  you 
since  he  was  a  child. 

\}  A  personage  known  as  "  the  good-natured  man  "  is  de- 
scribed at  p.  85  of  Goldsmith's  Life  of  Richard  Nash,  Esq., 
1762,  and  may  have  suggested  this  title.] 


icp  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Sir  Will.  What  signifies  his  affection  to  me,  or 
how  can  I  be  proud  of  a  place  in  a  heart  where 
every  sharper  and  coxcomb  find  an  easy  entrance  ? 

Jarvis.  I  grant  you  that  he's  rather  too  good- 
natured  ;  that  he's  too  much  every  man's  man ; 
that  he  laughs  this  minute  with  one,  and  cries  the 
next  with  another  ;  but  whose  instructions  may  he 
thank  for  all  this  ? 

Sir  Will.  Not  mine,  sure  ?  My  letters  to  him 
during  my  employment  in  Italy,  taught  him  only 
that  philosophy  which  might  prevent,  not  defend 
his  errors. 

Jarvis.  Faith,  begging  your  honour's  pardon, 
I'm  sorry  they  taught  him  any  philosophy  at  all ; 
it  has  only  served  to  spoil  him.  This  same  phi- 
losophy is  a  good  horse  in  the  stable,  but  an 
arrant  jade  on  a  journey.  For  my  own  part, 
whenever  I  hear  him  mention  the  name  on't,  I'm 
always  sure  he's  going  to  play  the  fool. 

Sir  Will.  Don't  let  us  ascribe  his  faults  to  his 
philosophy,  I  entreat  you.  No,  Jarvis,  his  good 
nature  arises  rather  from  his  fears  of  offending  the 
importunate,  than  his  desire  of  making  the  deserv- 
ing happy. 

Jarvis.  What  it  rises  from,  I  don't  know.  But, 
to  be  sure,  everybody  has  it,  that  asks  it. 

Sir  Will.  Ay,  or  that  does  not  ask  it.  I  have 
been  now  for  some  time  a  concealed  spectator  of 
his  follies,  and  find  them  as  boundless  as  his  dis- 
sipation. 

Jarvis.  And  yet,  faith,  he  has  some  fine  name 
or  other  for  them  all.  He  calls  his  extravagance, 
generosity  ;  and  his  trusting  everybody,  universal 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAX.  ,gi 

benevolence.  It  was  but  last  week  he  went  se- 
curity for  a  fellow  whose  face  he  scarce  knew,  and 
that  he  called  an  act  of  exalted  mu — mu — munifi- 
cence ;  ay,  that  was  the  name  he  gave  it. 

Sir  Will.  And  upon  that  I  proceed,  as  my  last 
effort,  though  with  very  little  hopes  to  reclaim  him. 
That  very  fellow  has  just  absconded,  and  I  have 
taken  up  the  security.  Now,  my  intention  is  to 
involve  him  in  fictitious  distress,  before  he  has 
plunged  himself  into  real  calamity.  To  arrest  him 
for  that  very  debt,  to  clap  an  officer  upon  him,  and 
then  let  him  see  which  of  his  friends  will  come  to 
his  relief. 

Janns.  Well,  if  I  could  but  any  way  see  him 
thoroughly  vexed,  every  groan  of  his  would  be 
music  to  me  ;  yet,  faith,  I  believe  it  impossible.  I 
have  tried  to  fret  him  myself  every  morning  these 
three  years  ;  but,  instead  of  being  angry,  he  sits  as 
calmly  to  hear  me  scold,  as  he  does  to  his  hair- 
dresser. 

Sir  Will.  We  must  try  him  once  more,  how- 
ever, and  I'll  go  this  instant  to  put  my  scheme  into 
execution  ;  and  I  don't  despair  of  succeeding,  as, 
by  your  means,  I  can  have  frequent  opportunities 
of  being  about  him,  without  being  known.  What 
a  pity  it  is,  Jarvis,  that  any  man's  good-will  to 
others  should  produce  so  much  neglect  of  himself, 
as  to  require  correction.  Yet,  we  must  touch  his 
weaknesses  with  a  delicate  hand.  There  are  some 
faults  so  nearly  allied  to  excellence,  that  we  can 
scarce  weed  out  the  vice  without  eradicating  the 
virtue.  [Exit. 

Jarvis.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  Sir  William  Honey- 


ig?-  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

wood.  It  is  not  without  reason  that  the  world 
allows  thee  to  be  the  best  of  men.  But  here 
comes  his  hopeful  nephew  ;  the  strange  good- 
natur'd,  foolish,  open-hearted — And  yet,  all  his 
faults  were  such  that  one  loves  him  still  the  better 
for  them. 

Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Honeyw.  Well,  Jarvis,  what  messages  from  my 
friends  this  morning  ? 

Jarvis.  You  have  no  friends. 

Honeyw.  Well  ;  from  my  acquaintance  then  ? 

Jarvis.  (Pulling out  bills.)  A  few  of  our  usual 
cards  of  compliment,  that's  all.  This  bill  from 
your  tailor  ;  this  from  your  mercer  ;  and  this  from 
the  little  broker  in  Crooked-lane.1  He  says  he 
has  been  at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  get  back  the 
money  you  borrowed. 

Honeyw.  That  I  don't  know ;  but  I'm  sure  we 
were  at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  getting  him  to 
lend  it. 

Jarvis.   He  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeyiv.  Then  he  has  lost  a  very  good  thing. 

Jarvis.  There's  that  ten  guineas  you  were  send- 
ing to  the  poor  gentleman  and  his  children  in  the 
Fleet.  I  believe  that  would  stop  his  mouth,  for  a 
while  at  least. 

Honeyw.  Ay,  Jarvis,  but  what  will  fill  their 
mouths  in  the  mean  time  ?  Must  I  be  cruel  be- 
cause he  happens  to  be  importunate ;  and,  to 
relieve  his  avarice,  leave  them  to  insupportable 
distress  ? 

Tl  Perhaps,  but  not  necessarily,  Crooked-lane,  Cannon- 
street,  City.] 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  193 

Jarvis.  'Sdeath  !  Sir,  the  question  now  is  how 
to  relieve  yourself.  Yourself — Haven't  I  reason  to 
be  out  of  my  senses,  when  I  see  things  going  on 
at  sixes  and  sevens  ? 

Honeyw.  Whatever  reason  you  may  have  for 
being  out  of  your  senses,  I  hope  you'll  allow  that 
I'm  not  quite  unreasonable  for  continuing  in 
mine. 

Jarvis.  You're  the  only  man  alive  in  your 
present  situation  that  could  do  so— Everything 
upon  the  waste.  There's  Miss  Richland  and  her 
fine  fortune  gone  already,  and  upon  the  point  of 
being  given  to  your  rival. 

Honeyw.  I'm  no  man's  rival. 

Jarvis.  Your  uncle  in  Italy  preparing  to  disin- 
herit you  ;  your  own  fortune  almost  spent  ;  and 
nothing  but  pressing  creditors,  false  friends,  and  a 
pack  of  drunken  servants  that  your  kindness  has 
made  unfit  for  any  other  family. 

Honeyw.  Then  they  have  the  more  occasion  for 
being  in  mine. 

Jarvis.  Soli  !  What  will  you  have  done  with 
him  that  I  caught  stealing  your  plate  in  the  pantry  ? 
In  the  fact  ;  I  caught  him  in  the  fact. 

Honeyw.  In  the  fact  !  If  so,  I  really  think  that 
we  should  pay  him  his  wages,  and  turn  him  off. 

Jarvis.  He  shall  be  turn'd  off  at  Tyburn,  the 
clog  ;  we'll  hang  him,  if  it  be  only  to  frighten  the 
rest  of  the  family. 

Honeyw.  No,  Jarvis :  it's  enough  that  we  have  lost 
what  he  has  stolen,  let  us  not  add  to  it  the  loss  of 
a  fellow-creature  ! 

Jarz'is.  Very  fine  ;  well,  here  was  the  footman 
n 


194  PLAYS  Of  GOLDSMITH. 

just  now,  to  complain  of  the  butler  ;  he  says  he 
does  most  work,  and  ought  to  have  most  wages. 

Honeynv.  That's  but  just  ;  though  perhaps,  here 
comes  the  butler  to  complain  of  the  footman. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  it's  the  way  with  them  all,  from  the 
scullion  to  the  privy-counsellor.  If  they  have  a 
bad  master,  they  keep  quarrelling  with  him  ;  if 
they  have  a  good  master,  they  keep  quarrelling 
with  one  another. 

Enter  Butler,  drunk. 

Butler.  Sir,  I'll  not  stay  in  the  family  with 
Jonathan  ;  you  must  part  with  him,  or  part  with 
me,  that's  the  ex-ex-exposition  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Honey w.  Full  and  explicit  enough.  But  what's 
his  fault,  good  Philip? 

Butler.  Sir,  he's  given  to  drinking,  sir,  and  I 
shall  have  my  morals  corrupted,  by  keeping  such 
company. 

Honeyw.  Ha  !  Ila  !  He  has  such  a  diverting 
way — 

Jarvis.   O  quite  amusing  ! 

Butler.  I  find  my  wines  a-going,  sir ;  and 
liquors  don't  go  without  mouths,  sir ;  I  hate  a 
drunkard,  sir  ! 

Honeynv.  Well,  well,  Philip,  I'll  hear  you  upon 
that  another  time,  so  go  to  bed  now. 

Jarvis.  To  bed  !  Let  him  go  to  the  devil  ! 

Butler.  Begging  your  honour's  pardon,  and 
begging  your  pardon  master  Jarvis,  I'll  not  go  to 
bed,  nor  to  the  devil  neither.  I  have  enough  to  do 
to  mind  my  cellar.  I  forgot,  your  honour,  Mr. 
Croaker  is  below.     I  came  on  purpose  to  tell  you. 


THE  GOOD-NAT UR'D  MAN.  IQ5 

Honeyw.  Why  didn't  you  show  him  up,  block- 
head? 

Butler.  Show  him  up,  sir?  With  all  my  heart, 
sir.     Up  or  down,  all's  one  to  me.  [Exit. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  we  have  one  or  other  of  that  family 
in  this  house  from  morning  till  night.  He  comes 
on  the  old  affair,  I  suppose.  The  match  between 
his  son,  that's  just  returned  from  Paris,  and  Miss 
Richland,  the  young  lady  he's  guardian  to. 

Honeyw.  Perhaps  so.  Mr.  Croaker,  knowing 
my  friendship  for  the  young  lady,  has  got  it  into 
his  head  that  I  can  persuade  her  to  what  I  please. 
Jarvis.  Ah  !  If  you  loved  yourself  but  half  as 
well  as  she  loves  you,  we  should  soon  see  a  mar- 
riage that  would  set  all  things  to  rights  again. 

Honeyw.  Love  me  !  Sure,  Jarvis,  you  dream. 
No,  no  ;  her  intimacy  with  me  never  amounted  to 
more  than  friendship — mere  friendship.  That  she 
is  the  most  lovely  woman  that  ever  warmed  the 
human  heart  with  desire,  I  own.  But  never  let  me 
harbour  a  thought  of  making  her  unhappy,  by  a 
connection  with  one  so  unworthy  her  merits  as  I 
am.  No,  Jarvis,  it  shall  be  my  study  to  serve  her, 
even  in  spite  of  my  wishes ;  and  to  secure  her 
happiness,  though  it  destroys  my  own. 
Jarvis.  Was  ever  the  like  !  I  want  patience. 

Honeyw.  Besides,  Jarvis,  though  I  could  obtain 
Miss  Richland's  consent,  do  you  think  I  could 
succeed  with  her  guardian,  or  Mrs.  Croaker  his 
wife  ;  who,  though  both  very  fine  in  their  way,  are 
yet  a  little  opposite  in  their  dispositions,  you  know. 
Jarvis.  Opposite  enough,  Heaven  knows ;  the 
very  reverse  of  each  other  ;  she  all  laugh  and  no 


196  PLATS  OF  GOLDS.TTITH. 

joke  ;  he  always  complaining,  and  never  sorrowful ; 
a  fretful  poor  soul  that  has  a  new  distress  for  every 
hour  in  the  four-and-twenty — 

Honeyw.  Hush,  hush,  he's  coming  up,  he'll 
hear  you. 

Jarvis.  One  whose  voice  is  a  passing  bell — 

Honeyw.  Well,  well,  go,  do. 

Jarvis.  A  raven  that  bodes  nothing  but  mischief; 
a  coffin  and  cross  bones  ;  a  bundle  of  rue  ;  a  sprig 
of  deadly  night  shade ;  a — {Honeywood  stopping  his 
mouth  at  last,  pushes  him  off.)  [Exit  Jarvis. 

Honeyw.  I  must  own  my  old  monitor  is  not 
entirely  wrong.  There  is  something  in  my  friend 
Croaker's  conversation  that  quite  depresses  me. 
His  very  mirth  is  an  antidote  to  all  gaiety,  and  his 
appearance  has  a  stronger  effect  on  my  spirits  than 
an  undertaker's  shop. — Mr.  Croaker,  this  is  such  a 
satisfaction — 

Enter  Croaker.1 

Croaker.  A  pleasant  morning  to  Mr.  Honey- 
wood,  and  many  of  them.  How  is  this  !  You  look 
most  shockingly  to-day,  my  dear  friend.  I  hope 
this  weather  does  not  affect  your  spirits.  To  be 
sure,  if  this  weather  continues — I  say  nothing — 
But  God  send  we  be  all  better  this  day  three 
months. 

Honeyw.  I  heartily  concur  in  the  wish,  though 
I  own  not  in  your  apprehensions. 

Croaker.  May  be  not  !  Indeed  what  signifies 
what  weather  we  have  in  a  country  going  to  ruin 

[!  The  character  of  Croaker  is  said  to  have  bien  based  on 
Johnson's  "Suspirius,"  Rambler,  No.  59-1 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  i97 

like  ours  ?  Taxes  rising  and  trade  falling.  Money 
flying  out  of  the  kingdom  and  Jesuits  swarming 
into  it.  I  know  at  this  time  no  less  than  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty-seven  Jesuits  between  Charing- 
cross  and  Temple-bar. 

Honeyw.  The  Jesuits  will  scarce  pervert  you  or 
me,  I  should  hope. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed  what  signifies 
whom  they  pervert  in  a  country  that  has  scarce  any 
religion  to  lose  ?  I'm  only  afraid  for  our  wives  and 
daughters. 

Honeyw.  I  have  no  apprehensions  for  the  ladies, 
I  assure  you. 

Croaker.  May  be  not.  Indeed  what  signifies 
whether  they  be  perverted  or  no  ?  The  women  in 
my  time  were  good  for  something.  I  have  seen  a 
lady  dressed  from  top  to  toe  in  her  own  manufac- 
tures formerly.  But  now-a-days,  the  devil  a  thing 
of  their  own  manufactures  about  them,  except  their 
faces. 

Honeyw.  But,  however  these  faults  may  be 
practised  abroad,  you  don't  find  them  at  home, 
either  with  Mrs.  Croaker,  Olivia  or  Miss  Richland. 

Croaker.  The  best  of  them  will  never  be 
canoniz'd  for  a  saint  when  she's  dead.  By  the  bye, 
my  dear  friend,  I  dcn't  find  this  match  between 
Miss  Richland  and  my  son  much  relish'd,  either 
by  one  side  or  t'other. 

Honeyw.   I  thought  otherwise. 

Croaker.  Ah,  Mr.  Honeywcod,  a  little  of  your 
fine  serious  advice  to  the  young  lady  might  go  far  : 
I  know  she  has  a  very  exalted  opinion  of  your 
understanding. 


198  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Honeyzv.  But  would  not  that  be  usurping  an 
authority  that  more  properly  belongs  to  yourself? 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  you  know  but  little  of 
my  authority  at  home.  People  think,  indeed, 
because  they  see  me  come  out  in  a  morning  thus, 
with  a  pleasant  face,  and  to  make  my  friends 
merry,  that  all's  well  within.  But  I  have  cares 
that  would  break  a  heart  of  stone.  My  wife  has 
so  encroach'd  upon  every  one  of  my  privileges, 
that  I'm  now  no  more  than  a  mere  lodger  in  my 
own  house  ! 

Honeyw.  But  a  little  spirit  exerted  on  your  side 
might  perhaps  restore  your  authority. 

Croaker.  No,  though  I  had  the  spirit  of  a  lion  ! 
I  do  rouse  sometimes.  But  what  then  !  Always 
haggling  and  haggling.  A  man  is  tired  of  getting 
the  better  before  his  wife  is  tired  of  losing  the 
victory. 

Honeyw.  It's  a  melancholy  consideration  indeed, 
that  our  chief  comforts  often  produce  our  greatest 
anxieties,  and  that  an  increase  of  our  possessions 
is  but  an  inlet  to  new  disquietudes. 

Croaker.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  these  were  the  very 
words  of  poor  Dick  Doleful  to  me  not  a  week 
before  he  made  away  with  himself.  Indeed,  Mr. 
Honeywood,  I  never  see  you  but  you  put  me  in 
mind  of  poor — Dick.  Ah,  there  was  merit  neglected 
for  you  !  and  so  true  a  friend  !  we  lov'd  each  other 
for  thirty  years,  and  yet  he  never  asked  me  to  lend 
him  a  single  farthing  ! 

Honeyw.  Pray  what  could  induce  him  to  commit 
so  rash  an  action  at  last? 

Croaker.   I     don't    know,     some    people    were 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D   MAN.  199 

malicious  enough  to  say  it  was  keeping  company 
with  me ;  because  we  used  to  meet  now  and  then 
and  open  our  hearts  to  each  other.  To  be  sure  I 
lov'd  to  hear  him  talk,  and  he  lov'd  to  hear  me  talk  ; 
poor  dear  Dick.  He  used  to  say  that  Croaker 
rhymed  to  joker  ;  and  so  we  used  to  laugh — Poor 
Dick.     (Going  to  ay.) 

Honeyw.  His  fate  affects  me. 

Croaker.  Ay,  he  grew  sick  of  this  miserable  life, 
where  we  do  nothing  but  eat  and  grow  hungry, 
dress  and  undress,  get  up  and  lie  down ;  while 
reason,  that  should  watch  like  a  nurse  by  our  side, 
falls  as  fast  asleep  as  we  do. 

Honeyw.  To  say  truth,  if  we  compare  that  part 
of  life  which  is  to  come,  by  that  which  we  have 
past,  the  prospect  is  hideous. 

Croaker.  Life  at  the  greatest  and  best  is  but  a 
froward  child,  that  must  be  humour'd  and  coax'd 
a  little  till  it  falls  asleep,  and  then  all  the  care  is 
over.1 

Honeyw.  Very  true,  sir,  nothing  can  exceed  the 
vanity  of  our  existence,  but  the  folly  of  our  pursuits. 
We  wept  when  we  came  into  the  world,  and  every 
day  tells  us  why. 

Croaker.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  a  perfect 
satisfaction  to  be  miserable  with  you.  My  son 
Leontine  shan't  lose  the  benefit  of  such  fine  con- 
versation. I'll  just  step  home  for  him.  I  am 
willing  to  shew  him  so  much  seriousness  in  one 

[1  An  unacknowledged  quotation  from  Sir  William 
Temple's  essay  on  Poetry  {Works,  1720,  i,  249.)-  Goldsmith 
had  already  used  it  in  the  Enquiry  into  the  Present  State 
0/ Polite  Learning,  1759,  p.  196.' 


2oo  FLATS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

scarce  older  than  himself — And  what  if  I  bring  my 
last  letter  to  the  Gazetteer  on  the  increase  and 
progress  of  earthquakes?  It  will  amuse  us,  I 
promise  you.  I  there  prove  how  the  late  earth- 
quake is  coming  round  to  pay  us  another  visit  from 
London  to  Lisbon,  from  Lisbon  to  the  Canary 
Islands,  from  the  Canary  Islands  to  Palmyra,  from 
Palmyra  to  Constantinople,  and  so  from  Constan- 
tinople back  to  London  again.  [Exit, 
lloneyw.  Poor  Croaker  !  His  situation  deserves 
the  utmost  pity.  I  shall  scarce  recover  my  spirits 
these  three  days.  Sure,  to  live  upon  such  terms  is 
worse  than  death  itself.  And  yet,  when  I  consider 
my  own  situation,  a  broken  fortune,  a  hopeless 
passion,  friends  in  distress  ;  the  wish  but  not  the 
power  to  serve  them [pausing  and  sighing?) 

Enter  Butler. 
Butler.     More     company    below,     sir ;     Mrs. 
Croaker  and  Miss  Richland ;  shall  I  show  them 
up?   But  they're  showing  up  themselves.      [Exit. 

Enter  Mrs.  CROAKER  and  Miss  RlCHLAND. 

Miss  Rich.  You're  always  in  such  spirits. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  We  have  just  come,  my  dear 
Honeywood,  from  the  auction.  There  was  the  old 
deaf  dowager,  as  usual,  bidding  like  a  fury  against 
herself.  And  then  so  curious  in  antiques!  Herself 
the  most  genuine  piece  of  antiquity  in  the  whole 
collection  ! 

Honeyiv.  Excuse  me,  ladies,  if  some  uneasiness 
from  friendship  makes  me  unfit  to  share  in  this 
good  humour  :     I  know  you'll  pardon  me. 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D   MAN.  201 

Mrs.  Croaker.  I  vow  he  seems  as  melancholy 
as  if  he  had  taken  a  dose  of  my  husband  this 
morning.  Well,  if  Richland  here  can  pardon  you, 
I  must. 

Miss  Rich.  You  would  seem  to  insinuate,  madam, 
that  I  have  particular  reasons  for  being  dispos'd  to 
refuse  it. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Whatever  I  insinuate,  my  dear, 
don't  be  so  ready  to  wish  an  explanation. 

Miss  Rich.  I  own  I  should  be  sorry  Mr.  Honey- 
wood's  long  friendship  and  mine  should  be  mis- 
understood. 

Honeyw.  There's  no  answering  for  others, 
madam.  But  I  hope  you'll  never  find  me  pre- 
suming to  offer  more  than  the  most  delicate  friend- 
ship may  readily  allow. 

Miss  Rich.  And  I  shall  be  prouder  of  such  a 
tribute  from  you  than  the  most  passionate  profes- 
sions from  others. 

Honeyw.  My  own  sentiments,  madam  :  friend- 
ship is  a  disinterested  commerce  between  equals  ; 
love,  an  abject  intercourse  between  tyrants  and 
slaves. 

Miss  Rich.  And,  without  a  compliment,  I  know 
none  more  disinterested  or  more  capable  of  friend- 
ship than  Mr.  Honey  wood. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  indeed  I  know  nobody  that 
has  more  friends,  at  least  among  the  ladies.  Miss 
Fruzz,  Miss  Oddbody  and  Miss  Winterbottom, 
praise  him  in  all  companies.  As  for  Miss  Biddy 
Bundle,  she's  his  professed  admirer. 

Miss  Rich.  Indeed!  an  admirer!  I  did  not 
know,  sir,  you  were  such  a  favourite  there.      But 


202  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

is  she  seriously  so  handsome  ?  Is  she  the  mighty 
thing  talk'd  of? 

Hoiieyw.  The  town,  madam,  seldom  begins  to 
praise  a  lady's  beauty,  till  she's  beginning  to  lose 
it  !     {Smiling.) 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  she's  resolved  never  to  lose 
it,  it  seems.  For  as  her  natural  face  decays,  her 
skill  improves  in  making  the  artificial  one.  Well, 
nothing  diverts  me  more  than  one  of  those  fine  old 
dressy  things,  who  thinks  to  conceal  her  age,  by 
everywhere  exposing  her  person ;  sticking  herself 
up  in  the  front  of  a  side-box  j1  trailing  through  a 
minuet  at  Almack's ;  and  then,  in  the  public 
gardens ;  looking  for  all  the  world  like  one  of  the 
painted  ruins  of  the  place.2 

Honeyw.  Every  age  has  its  admirers,  ladies. 
While  you,  perhaps,  are  trading  among  the 
warmer  climates  of  youth,  there  ought  to  be 
some  to  carry  on  a  useful  commerce  in  the 
frozen  latitudes  beyond  fifty. 

Miss  Rich.  But  then  the  mortifications  they 
must  suffer  before  they  can  be  fitted  out  for  traffic. 
I  have  seen  one  of  them  fret  a  whole  morning  at 
her  hair-dresser,  when  all  the  fault  was  her  face. 

Honeyw.  And  yet  I'll  engage  has  carried  that 
face  at  last  to  a  very  good  market.  This  good- 
natur'd  town,  madam,  has  husbands,  like  spec- 
tacles, to  fit  every  age,  from  fifteen  to  fourscore. 

[l  In  Pope's  time  the  gentlemen  sat  in  the  side-hoxes. 
But  by  this  date  things  must  have  altered,  as  Johnson  and 
his  friends  occupied  a  front-box  on  the  first  night  of  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer.} 

P  E.g.  the  Ruins  of  Palmyra  and  other  painted  scenes  ia 
the  walks  at  old  Vauxhall  Gardens. J 


THE  GOOD-NAT UR'D  MAN.  2QJ 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Well,  you're  a  dear  good-natur'd 
creature.  But  you  know  you're  engaged  with  us 
this  morning  upon  a  strolling  party.  I  want  to 
shew  Olivia  the  town,  and  the  tilings  ;  I  believe  I 
shall  have  business  for  you  for  the  whole  day. 

Honeyw.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment with  Mr.  Croaker,  which  it  is  impossible  to 
put  off. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What  !  with  my  husband  !  Then 
I'm  resolved  to  take  no  refusal.  Nay,  I  protest 
you  must.  You  know  I  never  laugh  so  much  as 
with  you. 

Honeyw.  Why,  if  I  must,  I  must.  I'll  swear 
you  have  put  me  into  such  spirits.  Well,  do  you 
find  jest,  and  I'll  find  laugh,  I  promise  you. 
We'll  wait  for  the  chariot  in  the  next  room. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Leontine  and  Olivia. 

Leont.  There  they  go,  thoughtless  and  happy. 
My  dearest  Olivia,  what  would  I  give  to  see  you 
capable  of  sharing  in  their  amusements,  and  as 
cheerful  as  they  are. 

Olivia.  How,  my  Leontine,  how  can  I  be 
cheerful,  when  I  have  so  many  terrors  to  oppress 
me?  The  fear  of  being  detected  by  this  family, 
and  the  apprehensions  of  a  censuring  world,  when 
I  must  be  detected — 

Leont.  The  world  !  my  love,  what  can  it  say? 
At  worst  it  can  only  say  that,  being  compelled  by 
a  mercenary  guardian  to  embrace  a  life  you  dis- 
liked, you  formed  a  resolution  of  flying  with  the  man 
of  your  choice;  that  you  confided  in  his  honour,  and 


2o4  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

took  refuge  in  my  father's  house  ;  the  only  one 
where  your's  could  remain  without  censure. 

Olivia.  But  consider,  Leontine,  your  disobedi- 
ence and  my  indiscretion  :  your  being  sent  to 
France  to  bring  home  a  sister ;  and,  instead  of  a 
sister,  bringing  home — 

Lcont.  One  dearer  than  a  thousand  sisters.  One 
that  I  am  convinc'd  will  be  equally  dear  to  the 
rest  of  the  family,  when  she  comes  to  be  known. 

Olivia.  And  that,  I  fear,  will  shortly  be. 

Lcont.  Impossible,  till  we  ourselves  think  pro- 
per to  make  the  discovery.  My  sister,  you  know, 
has  been  with  her  aunt,  at  Lyons,  since  she  was  a 
child,  and  you  find  every  creature  in  the  family 
takes  you  for  her. 

Olivia.  But  mayn't  she  write,  mayn't  her  aunt 
write  ? 

Leont.  Her  aunt  scarce  ever  writes,  and  all  my 
sister's  letters  are  directed  to  me. 

Olivia.  But  won't  your  refusing  Miss  Richland, 
for  whom  you  know  the  old  gentleman  intends  you, 
create  a  suspicion  ? 

Leont.  There,  (here's  my  master-stroke.  I  have 
resolved  not  to  refuse  her  ;  nay,  an  hour  hence  I 
have  consented  to  go  with  my  father,  to  make  her 
an  offer  of  my  heart  and  fortune. 

Olivia.  Your  heart  and  fortune  ! 

Leont.  Don't  be  alarm'd,  my  dearest.  Can 
Olivia  think  so  meanly  of  my  honour,  or  my 
love,  as  to  suppose  I  could  ever  hope  for  happiness 
from  any  but  her?  No,  my  Olivia,  neither  the 
force,  nor,  permit  me  to  add,  the  delicacy  of  my 
passion,  leave  any  room  to  suspect   me.     I  only 


THE  GOOD-XATUR'F)   MAX.  2o5 

offer  Miss  Richland  a  heart  I  am  convinced  she  will 
refuse  ;  as  I  am  confidant  that,  without  knowing  it, 
her  affections  are  fixed  upon  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Olivia.  Mr.  Honeywood !  You'll  excuse  my 
apprehensions  ;  but  when  your  merits  come  to  be 
put  in  the  balance — 

Lcont.  You  view  them  with  too  much  partiality. 
However,  by  making  this  offer,  I  show  a  seeming 
compliance  with  my  father's  commands ;  and 
perhaps,  upon  her  refusal,  I  may  have  his  consent 
to  choose  for  myself. 

Olivia.  Well,  I  submit.  And  yet,  my  Leontine, 
I  own,  I  shall  envy  her  even  your  pretended 
addresses.  I  consider  every  look,  eveiy  expression 
of  your  esteem,  as  due  only  to  me.  This  is  folly, 
perhaps  :  I  allow  it ;  but  it  is  natural  to  suppose, 
that  merit  which  has  made  an  impression  on  one's 
own  heart,  may  be  powerful  over  that  of  another. 

Lcont.  Don't,  my  life's  treasure,  don't  let  us 
make  imaginary  evils,  when  you  know  we  have  so 
many  real  ones  to  encounter.  At  worst,  you 
know,  if  Miss  Richland  should  consent,  or  my 
father  refuse  his  pardon,  it  can  but  end  in  a  trip 
to  Scotland;  and 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Where  have  you  been,  boy?  I  have 
been  seeking  you.  My  friend  Honeywood  here, 
has  been  saying  such  comfortable  things.  Ah!  he's 
an  example  indeed.     Where  is  he?  I  left  him  here. 

Leont.  Sir,  I  believe  you  may  see  him,  and 
hear  him,  too,  in  the  next  room  :  he's  preparing 
to  go  out  with  the  ladies 


206  FLATS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Croaker.  Good  gracious,  can  I  believe  my  eyes 
or  my  ears  !  I'm  struck  dumb  with  his  vivacity, 
and  stunn'd  with  the  loudness  of  his  laugh.  Was 
there  ever  such  a  transformation  !  [A  laugh  be- 
ltind the  scenes,  Croaker  mimics  it.)  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
there  it  goes  :  a  plague  take  their  balderdash  ;  yet 
I  could  expect  nothing  less,  when  my  precious  wife 
was  of  the  party.  On  my  conscience,  I  believe 
she  could  spread  a  horse-laugh  through  the  pews 
of  a  tabernacle. 

Leont.  Since  you  find  so  many  objections  to  a 
wife,  sir,  how  can  you  be  so  earnest  in  recom- 
mending one  to  me  ? 

Croaker.  I  have  told  you,  and  tell  you  again, 
boy,  that  Miss  Richland's  fortune  must  not  go  out 
of  the  family  ;  one  may  find  comfort  in  the  money, 
whatever  one  does  in  the  wife. 

Leont.  But,  sir,  though,  in  obedience  to  your 
desire,  I  am  ready  to  marry  her,  it  may  be  possible 
she  has  no  inclination  to  me. 

Croaker.  I'll  tell  you  once  for  all  how  it  stands. 
A  good  part  of  Miss  Richland's  large  fortune  con- 
sists in  a  claim  upon  government,  which  my  good 
friend  Mr.  Lofty,  assures  me  the  Treasury  will  allow. 
One  half  of  this  she  is  to  forfeit,  by  her  father's 
will,  in  case  she  refuses  to  marry  you.  So,  if  she 
rejects  you,  we  seize  half  her  fortune  ;  if  she  ac- 
cepts you,  we  seize  the  whole,  and  a  fine  girl  into 
the  bargain. 

Leant.   But,  sir,  if  you  will  but  listen  to  reason — 

Croaker.  Come,  then,  produce  your  reasons,  I 
tell  you  I'm  fixed,  determined,  so  now  produce 
your  reasons.  When  I'm  determined,  I  always 
listen  to  reason,  because  it  can  then  do  no  harm. 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  207 

Lcont.  You  have  alleged  that  a  mutual  choice 
was  the  first  requisite  in  matrimonial  happiness. 

Croaker.  Well,  and  you  have  both  of  you  a 
mutual  choice.  She  has  her  choice — to  marry 
you,  or  lose  half  her  fortune  ;  and  you  have  your 
choice — to  marry  her,  or  pack  out  of  doors  with- 
out any  fortune  at  all. 

Leont.  An  only  son,  sir,  might  expect  more 
indulgence. 

Croaker.  An  only  father,  sir,  might  expect  more 
obedience  ;  besides,  has  not  your  sister  here,  that 
never  disobliged  me  in  her  life,  as  good  a  right  as 
you?  He's  a  sad  dog,  Livy,  my  dear,  and  would 
take  all  from  you.  But  he  shan't,  I  tell  you  he 
shan't,  for  you  shall  have  your  share. 

Olivia.  Dear  sir,  I  wish  you'd  be  convinced  that 
I  can  never  be  happy  in  any  addition  to  my  fortune, 
which  is  taken  from  his. 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  it's  a  good  child,  so  say  no 
more,  but  come  with  me,  and  we  shall  see  some- 
thing that  will  give  us  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  I 
promise  you  ;  old  Ruggins,  the  curry-comb-maker, 
lying  in  state ; l  I'm  told  he  makes  a  very  hand- 
some corpse,  and  becomes  his  coffin  prodigiously. 
He  was  an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  and  these  are 
friendly  things  we  ought  to  do  for  each  other. 

[Exeunt. 

[l  Lying  in  state  for  several  days,  with  a  "  fitting  environ- 
ment" of  wax  candles  and  velvet  hangings,  was  a  common 
practice  in  the  last  century,  even  among  merchants  and 
tradesmen.     Cf.  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  1762,  i.  39.] 

END  OF   THE   FIRST  ACT. 


ioS  PLAl'S  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


ACT    THE    SECOND. 

SCENE.  —  Croaker's  House. 

Miss  Richland,  Garnet. 
Miss  Rich. 
■1LIVIA  not  his  sister  ?   Olivia  not  Leon- 
tine's  sister?  You  amaze  me  ! 

Gar.  No  more  his  sister  than  I  am  ; 
I  had  it  all  from  his  own  servant ;  I 
can  get  anything  from  that  quarter. 

Miss  Rich.  But  how  ?  Tell  me  again,  Garnet. 
Gar.  Why,  madam,  as  I  told  you  before, 
instead  of  going  to  Lyons  to  bring  home  his  sister, 
who  has  been  there  with  her  annt  these  ten  years, 
he  never  went  further  than  Faris  ;  there  he  saw 
and  fell  in  love  with  this  young  lady  ;  by  the  bye, 
of  a  prodigious  family. 

Miss  Rich.  And  brought  her  home  to  my  guar- 
dian, as  his  daughter  ? 

Gar.  Yes,  and  daughter  she  will  be.  If  he 
don't  consent  to  their  marriage,  they  talk  of  trying 
what  a  Scotch  parson  can  do. 

Miss  Rich.  Well,  I  own  they  have  deceived  me 
— And  so  demurely  as  Olivia  carried  it,  too  ! — 
Would  you  believe  it,  Garnet,  I  told  her  all  my 
secrets  ;  and  yet  the  sly  cheat  concealed  all  this 
from  me  ? 

Gar.  And,    upon   my  word,  Madam,    I  don't 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  2og 

much  blame  her  ;  she  was  loath  to  trust  one  with 
her  secrets,  that  was  so  very  bad  at  keeping  her 
own. 

Miss  Rich.  But,  to  add  to  their  deceit,  the 
young  gentleman,  it  seems,  pretends  to  make 
me  serious  proposals.  My  guardian  and  he  are 
to  be  here  presently,  to  open  the  affair  in  form. 
You  know  I  am  to  lose  half  my  fortune  if  I  refuse 
him. 

Gar.  Yet,  what  can  you  do?  For  being,  as 
you  are,  in  love  with  Mr.  Honeywood,  madam — 

Miss  Rich.  How  !  idiot  !  what  do  you  mean  ? 
In  love  with  Mr.  Honeywood  !  Is  this  to  provoke 
me? 

Gar.  That  is,  madam,  in  friendship  with  him  ; 
I  meant  nothing  more  than  friendship,  as  I  hope 
to  be  married  ;  nothing  more. 

Miss  Rich.  Well,  no  more  of  this  !  As  to  my 
guardian,  and  his  son,  they  shall  find  me  prepared 
to  receive  them  ;  I'm  resolved  to  accept  their  pro- 
posal with  seeming  pleasure,  to  mortify  them  by 
compliance,  and  so  throw  the  refusal  at  last  upon 
them. 

Gar.  Delicious  !  and  that  will  secure  your  whole 
fortune  to  yourself.  Well,  who  could  have  thought 
so  innocent  a  face  could  cover  so  much  cuteness  ! 

Miss  Rich.  Why,  girl,  I  only  oppose  my  pru- 
dence to  their  cunning,  and  practise  a  lesson  they 
have  taught  me  against  themselves. 

Gar.  Then  you're  likely  not  long  to  want  em- 
ployment, for  here  they  come,  and  in  close  con- 
ference 1 


«io  PLAYS  Of  GOLDSMITH. 

Enter  Croaker,  Leontine. 

Leont.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  seem  to  hesitate 
upon  the  point  of  putting  the  lady  so  important  a 
question. 

Croaker,  Lord  !  good  sir,  moderate  your  fears  ; 
you're  so  plaguy  shy,  that  one  would  think  you  had 
changed  sexes.  I  tell  you  we  must  have  the  half 
or  the  whole.  Come,  let  me  see  with  what  spirit 
you  begin?  Well,  why  don't  you  ?  Eh!  What? 
Well  then — I  must,  it  seems — Miss  Richland,  my 
dear,  I  believe  you  guess  at  our  business  ;  an  affair 
which  my  son  here  comes  to  open,  that  nearly 
concerns  your  happiness. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir,  I  should  be  ungrateful  not  to  be 
pleased  with  anything  that  comes  recommended  by 
you. 

Croaker.  How,  boy,  could  you  desire  a  finer 
opening  ?     Why  don't  you  begin,  I  say  ? 

{To  Leont.) 

Leont.  'Tis  true,  madam,  my  father,  madam,  has 
some  intentions — hem — of  explaining  an  affair — 
which — himself — can  best  explain,  madam. 

Croaker.  Yes,  my  dear ;  it  comes  entirely  from 
my  son  ;  it's  all  a  request  of  his  own,  madam. 
And  I  will  permit  him  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

Leont.  The  whole  affair  is  only  this,  madam  ; 
my  father  has  a  proposal  to  make,  which  he  insists 
none  but  himself  shall  deliver. 

Croaker.  My  mind  misgives  me,  the  fellow  will 
never  be  brought  on.  (Aside.) — In  short,  madam, 
you  see  before  you  one  that  loves  you  ;  one  whose 
whole  happiness  is  all  in  you. 

Miss  Rich,  I    never   had   any  doubts   of  your 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  211 

regard,  sir,  and  I  hope  you  can  have  none  of  my 
duty. 

Croaker.  That's  not  the  thing,  my  little  sweeting, 
my  love  !  No,  no,  another  guess  lover  than  I  ; 
there  he  stands,  madam  ;  his  very  looks  declare 
the  force  of  his  passion  ! — Call  up  a  look,  you  dog 
— But  then,  had  you  seen  him,  as  I  have,  weeping, 
speaking  soliloquies  and  blank  verse,  sometimes 
melancholy,  and  sometimes  absent — 

Miss  Rich.  I  fear,  sir,  he's  absent  now  ;  or  such 
a  declaration  would  have  come  most  properly  from 
himself. 

Croaker.  Himself!  madam  !  he  would  die  before 
he  could  make  such  a  confession  ;  and  if  he  had 
not  a  channel  for  his  passion  through  me,  it  would 
ere  now  have  drowned  his  understanding. 

Miss  Rich.  I  must  grant,  sir,  there  are  attrac- 
tions in  modest  diffidence,  above  the  force  of 
words.  A  silent  address  is  the  genuine  eloquence 
of  sincerity. 

Croaker.  Madam,  he  has  forgot  to  speak  any 
other  language ;  silence  is  become  his  mother 
tongue. 

Miss  Rich.  And  it  must  be  confessed,  sir,  it 
speaks  very  powerfully  in  his  favour.  And  yet,  I 
shall  be  thought  too  forward  in  making  such  a 
confession  ;  shan't  I,  Mr.  Leontine  ? 

Leont.  Confusion !  my  reserve  will  undo  me. 
But,  if  modesty  attracts  her,  impudence  may  dis- 
gust her.  I'll  try.  (Aside.) — Don't  imagine  from 
my  silence,  madam,  that  I  want  a  due  sense  of  the 

f1  Another  guess  =  of  another  fashion,  guise.] 


2i2  r LAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

honour  and  happiness  intended  me.  My  father, 
madam,  tells  me  your  humble  servant  is  not  totally 
indifferent  to  you.  He  admires  you  ;  I  adore  you  ; 
and  when  we  come  together,  upon  my  soul  I 
believe  we  shall  be  the  happiest  couple  in  all  St. 
James's  ! 

Miss  Rich.  If  I  could  flatter  myself  you  thought 
as  you  speak,  sir 

Leont.  Doubt  my  sincerity,  madam?  By  your 
dear  self  I  swear.  Ask  the  brave  if  they  desire 
glory  ;  ask  cowards  if  they  covet  safety 

Croaker,  Well,  well,  no  more  questions  about  it. 

Leont.  Ask  the  sick  if  they  long  for  health,  ask 
misers  if  they  love  money,  ask 

Croaker.  Ask  a  fool  if  he  can  talk  nonsense  ! 
What's  come  over  the  boy?  "What  signifies  asking, 
when  there's  not  a  soul  to  give  you  an  answer?  If 
you  would  ask  to  the  purpose,  ask  this  lady's  con- 
sent to  make  you  happy. 

Miss  Rich.  Why,  indeed,  sir,  his  uncommon 
ardour  almost  compels  me,  forces  me,  to  comply. 
And  yet  I'm  afraid  he'll  despise  a  conquest  gained 
with  too  much  ease  ;  won't  you,  Mr.  Leontine  ? 

Leant.  Confusion  !  {Aside.) — O,  by  no  means, 
madam,  by  no  means.  And  yet,  madam,  you 
talked  of  force.  There  is  nothing  I  would  avoid 
so  much  as  compulsion  in  a  thing  of  this  kind. 
No,  madam,  I  will  still  be  generous,  and  leave  you 
at  liberty  to  refuse. 

Croaker.  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  the  lady  is  not  at 
liberty.  It's  a  match.  You  see  she  says  nothing. 
Silence  gives  consent. 

Leont.  But,  sir,  she  talked  of  force.     Consider, 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.-  2I3 

sir,    the     cruelty    of    constraining     her    inclina- 
tions. 

Croaker.  But  I  say  there's  no  cruelty.  Don't 
you  know,  blockhead,  that  girls  have  always  a 
roundabout  way  of  saying  yes  before  company? 
So  get  you  both  gone  together  into  the  next  room, 
and  hang  him  that  interrupts  the  tender  explana- 
tion.    Get  you  gone,  I  say  ;    I'll  not  hear  a  word. 

Leont.  But,  sir,  I  must  beg  leave  to  insist 

Croaker.  Get  off,  you  puppy,  or  I'll  beg  leave 
to  insist  upon  knocking  you  down.  Stupid  whelp  ! 
But  I  don't  wonder,  the  boy  takes  entirely  after 
his  mother  !        [Exeunt  Miss  Rich,  and  Leont. 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Mr.  Croaker,  I  bring  you  some- 
thing, my  dear,  that  I  believe  will  make  you  smile. 

Croaker.  I'll  hold  you  a  guinea  of  that,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  A  letter;  and,  as  I  knew  the 
hand,  I  ventured  to  open  it ! 

Croaker.  And  how  can  you  expect  your  breaking 
open  my  letters  should  give  me  pleasure  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Poo,  it's  from  your  sister  at  Lyons, 
and  contains  good  news  :  read  it. 

Croaker.  What  a  Frenchified  cover  is  here  ! 
That  sister  of  mine  has  some  good  qualities,  but  I 
could  never  teach  her  to  fold  a  letter. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Fold  a  fiddlestick  !  Read  what 
it  contains. 

Croaker,  [reading.) 

Dear  Nick, 

An  English  gentleman,  of  large  fortune,  has  for 
some  time  madeprivaie,  though  honourable  proposals 


2i4  PLAYS   OF  GOLDSMITH. 

to  your  daughter  Olivia.  They  love  each  other 
tenderly,  and  I  find  she  has  consented,  without 
letting  any  of  the  family  know,  to  crown  his 
addresses.  As  such  good  offers  don't  come  every  day, 
your  own  good  sense,  his  large  fortune,  and  family 
considerations,  will  induce  you  to  forgive  her. 
Yours  ever, 

Rachel  Croaker. 

My  daughter,  Olivia,  privately  contracted  to  a 
man  of  large  fortune  !  This  is  good  news  indeed  ! 
My  heart  never  foretold  me  of  this.  And  yet,  how 
slily  the  little  baggage  has  carried  it  since  she  came 
home.  Not  a  word  on't  to  the  old  ones  for  the 
world.  Yet,  I  thought  I  saw  something  she 
wanted  to  conceal. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Well,  if  they  have  concealed 
their  amour,  they  shan't  conceal  their  wedding ; 
that  shall  be  public,  I'm  resolved. 

Croaker.  I  tell  thee,  woman,  the  wedding  is  the 
most  foolish  part  of  the  ceremony.  I  can  never 
get  this  woman  to  think  of  the  more  serious  part 
of  the  nuptial  engagement. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What,  would  you  have  me  think 
of  their  funeral?  But  come,  tell  me,  my  dear, 
don't  you  owe  more  to  me  than  you  care  to  con- 
fess? Would  you  have  ever  been  known  to  Mr. 
Lofty,  who  has  undertaken  Miss  Richland's  claim 
at  the  Treasury,  but  for  me?  Who  was  it  first 
made  him  an  acquaintance  at  Lacly  Shabbaroon's 
rout?  Who  got  him  to  promise  us  his  interest? 
Is  not  he  a  backstairs  favourite,  one  that  can  do 
what  he  pleases  with  those  that   do  what  they 


THE  GOOD-XATUR'D  MAN.  215 

please?  Isn't  he  an  acquaintance  that  all  your 
groaning  and  lamentations  could  never  have  got  us  ? 

Croaker.  He  is  a  man  of  importance,  I  grant 
you.  And  yet,  what  amazes  me  is,  that  while 
he  is  giving  away  places  to  all  the  world,  he 
can't  get  one  for  himself. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  That  perhaps  may  be  owing  to 
his  nicety.     Great  men  are  not  easily  satisfied  ! 

Enter  French  Servant. 

Servant.  An  expresse  from  Monsieur  Lofty. 
He  vil  be  vait  upon  your  honours  instammant. 
He  be  only  giving  four  five  instruction,  read  two 
tree  memorial,  call  upon  von  ambassadeur  !  He 
vil  be  vid  you  in  one  tree  minutes. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  You  see  now,  my  dear.  What 
an  extensive  department  !  Well,  friend,  let  your 
master  know,  that  we  are  extremely  honoured  by 
this  honour.  Was  there  anything  ever  in  a  higher 
style  of  breeding  !  All  messages  among  the  great 
are  now  done  by  express. 

Croaker.  To  be  sure,  no  man  does  little  things 
with  more  solemnity,  or  claims  more  respect  than 
he.  But  he's  in  the  right  on't.  In  our  bad  world, 
respect  is  given,  where  respect  is  claimed. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Never  mind  the  world,  my  dear; 
you  were  never  in  a  pleasanter  place  in  your  life. 
Let  us  now  think  of  receiving  him  with  proper 
respect  (a  loud  rapping  at  the  door)  and  there  he  is, 
by  the  thundering  rap. 

Croaker.  Ay,  verily,  there  he  is  ;  as  close  upon 
the  heels  of  his  own  express,  as  an  endorsement 
upon  the  back  of  a  bill.     Well,  I'll  leave  you  to 


2y6  plays  of  goldsmith. 

receive  him,  whilst  I  go  to  chide  my  little  Olivia 
for  intending  to  steal  a  marriage  without  mine  or 
her  aunt's  consent.  I  must  seem  to  be  angry,  or 
she,  too,  may  begin  to  despise  my  authority. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Lofty,1  speaking  to  his  servant. 
Lofty.  And  if  the  Venetian  Ambassador,  or  that 
teasing  creature  the  Marquis,  should  call,  I'm 
not  at  home.  Dam'me,  I'll  be  pack-horse  to 
none  of  them !  My  dear  madam,  I  have  just 
snatched  a  moment — And  if  the  expresses  to  his 
Grace  be  ready,  let  them  be  sent  off;  they're  of 
importance.     Madam,  I  ask  a  thousand  pardons  ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.   Sir,  this  honour 

Lofty.  And,  Dubardieu  !  If  the  person  calls 
about  the  commission,  let  him  know  that  it  is 
made  out.  As  for  Lord  Cumbercourt's  stale  re- 
quest, it  can  keep  cold  :  you  understand  me. 
Madam,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons  ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.   Sir,  this  honour 

Lofty.  And,  Dubardieu  !  If  the  man  comes 
from  the  Cornish  borough,  you  must  do  him ; 
you  must  do  him,  I  say !  Madam,  I  ask  ten 
thousand  pardons  !  And  if  the  Russian — Ambas- 
sador calls :  but  he  will  scarce  call  to-day,  I 
believe.  And  now,  madam,  I  have  just  got  time 
to  express  my  happiness  in  having  the  honour  of 
being  permitted  to  profess  myself  your  most  obe- 
dient humble  servant  ! 

Mrs.    Croaker.   Sir,   the  happiness  and  honour 

[!  Lofty,  in  some  respects,  is  a  variation  upon  "Beau 
Tibbs'  in  the  Citizen  of  the  World,] 


THE  COOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  217 

are  all  mine;  and  yet,  I'm  only  robbing  the 
public  while  I  detain  you. 

Lofty.  Sink  the  public,  madam,  when  the  fair 
are  to  be  attended.  Ah,  could  all  my  hours  be  so 
charmingly  devoted  !  Sincerely,  don't  you  pity  us 
poor  creatures  in  affairs  ?  Thus  it  is  eternally  ; 
solicited  for  places  here,  teased  for  pensions  there, 
and  courted  everywhere.  I  know  you  pity  me. 
Yes,  I  see  you  do  ! 

Airs.  Croaker.  Excuse  me,  sir.  Toils  of  empires 
pleasures  are,  as  Waller  says. 

Lofty.  Waller,  Waller  ;  is  he  of  the  House  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  The  modern  poet  of  that  name, 
sir. 

Lofty.  Oh,  a  modern  !  We  men  of  business 
despise  the  moderns  ;  and  as  for  the  ancients,  we 
have  no  time  to  read  them.  Poetry  is  a  pretty 
thing  enough  for  our  wives  and  daughters  ;  but  not 
for  us.  Why  now,  here  I  stand  that  know  nothing 
of  books.  I  say,  madam,  I  know  nothing  of  books  ; 
and  yet,  I  believe,  upon  a  land  carriage  fishery,  a 
stamp  act,  or  a  jag-hire,  lean  talk  my  two  hours 
without  feeling  the  want  of  them  ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.  The  world  is  no  stranger  to  Mr. 
Lofty's  eminence  in  every  capacity  ! 

Lofty.  I  vow  to  Gad,  madam,  you  make  me 
blush.  I'm  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  in  the 
world  ;  a  mere  obscure  gentleman  !  To  be  sure, 
indeed,  one  or  two  of  the  present  ministers  are 
pleased  to  represent  me  as  a  formidable  man.  I 
know  they  are  pleased  to  bespatter  me  at  all  their 
little  dirty  levees.  Yet,  upon  my  soul,  I  wonder 
what  they  see  in  me  to  treat  me  so  !     Measure?, 


2I8  PLAYs  Of  Goldsmith. 

not  men,1  have  always  been  my  mark  ;  and  I  vow, 
by  all  that's  honourable,  my  resentment  has  never 
done  the  men,  as  mere  men,  any  manner  of  harm — 
That  is,  as  mere  men. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What  importance,  and  yet  what 
modesty  ! 

Lofty.  Oh,  if  you  talk  of  modesty,  madam  ! 
There,  I  own,  I'm  accessible  to  praise :  modesty  is 
my  foible  :  it  was  so  the  Duke  of  Brentford  used  to 
say  of  me.  I  love  Jack  Lofty,  he  used  to  say  :  no 
man  has  a  finer  knowledge  of  things  ;  quite  a  man 
of  information  ;  and  when  he  speaks  upon  his  legs, 
by  the  lord,  he's  prodigious,  he  scouts  them  ;  and 
yet  all  men  have  their  faults  ;  too  much  modesty  is 
his,  says  his  Grace. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  yet,  I  dare  say,  you  don't 
want  assurance  when  you  come  to  solicit  for  your 
friends. 

Lofty.  O,  there  indeed  I'm  in  bronze.  A-propos, 
I  have  just  been  mentioning  Miss  Richland's  case 
to  a  certain  personage  ;  we  must  name  no  names. 
When  I  ask,  I  am  not  to  be  put  off,  madam  !  No, 
no,  I  take  my  friend  by  the  button.  A  fine  girl, 
sir  ;  great  justice  in  her  case.  A  friend  of  mine. 
Borough  interest.  Business  must  be  done,  Mr. 
Secretary.  I  say,  Mr.  Secretary,  her  business  must 
be  done,  sir.     That's  my  way,  madam  ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Bless  me  !  you  said  all  this  to 
the  Secretary  of  State,  did  you  ? 

[!  Goldsmith  is  generally  credited  with  this  sentiment ; 
but  from  a  sentence  in  linrke's  Thoughts  on  the  Present 
Discontents  it  would  seem  to  have  been  a  cant  political 
phrase.] 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  219 

Lofty.  I  did  not  say  the  Secretary,  did  I  ?  Well, 
curse  it,  since  you  have  found  me  out,  I  will  not 
deny  it.     It  was  to  the  Secretary  ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.  This  was  going  to  the  fountain- 
head  at  once,  not  applying  to  the  understrappers, 
as  Mr.  Honeywood  would  have  had  us. 

Lofty.  Honeywood  !  he  !  he  !  He  was,  indeed, 
a  fine  solicitor.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  what 
has  just  happened  to  him? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Poor  dear  man  !  no  accident,  I 
hope  ! 

Lofty.  Undone,  madam,  that's  all.  His  creditors 
have  taken  him  into  custody.  A  prisoner  in  his 
own  house  ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.  A  prisoner  in  his  own  house  ! 
How  !  At  this  very  time  !  I'm  quite  unhappy  for 
him. 

Lofty.  Why,  so  am  I  !  The  man,  to  be  sure, 
was  immensely  good-natur'd.  But  then,  I  could 
never  find  that  he  had  anything  in  him. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  His  manner,  to  be  sure,  was 
excessive  harmless ;  some,  indeed,  thought  it  a 
little  dull.  For  my  part,  I  always  concealed  my 
opinion. 

Lofty.  It  can't  be  concealed,  madam  ;  the  man 
was  dull,  dull  as  the  last  new  comedy  ! l  A  poor 
impracticable  creature  !  I  tried  once  or  twice  to 
know  if  he  was  fit  for  business  ;  but  he  had  scarce 
talents  to  be  groom-porter  to  an  orange  barrow  ! 

\y  The  "  last  new  comedy  "  was  the  False  Delicacy  of 
Goldsmith's  rival,  Hugh  Kelly,  just  produced  at  Drury 
Lane.  But  Goldsmith  could  scarcely  have  intended  this 
"palpable  hit."] 


22o  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  How  differently  does  Miss  Rich- 
land think  of  him  !  For,  I  believe,  with  all  his 
faults,  she  loves  him. 

Lofty.  Loves  him  !  Does  she?  You  should 
cure  her  of  that,  by  all  means.  Let  me  see,  what 
if  she  were  sent  to  him  this  instant,  in  his  present 
doleful  situation?  My  life  for  it,  that  works  her 
cure  !  Distress  is  a  perfect  antidote  to  love. 
Suppose  we  join  her  in  the  next  room  ?  Miss 
Richland  is  a  fine  girl,  has  a  fine  fortune,  and 
must  not  be  thrown  away.  Upon  my  honour, 
madam,  I  have  a  regard  for  Miss  Richland  ;  and, 
rather  than  she  should  be  thrown  away,  I  should 
think  it  no  indignity  to  marry  her  myself  ! 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Oltvia  and  Leontine. 

Leont.  And  yet,  trust  me,  Olivia,  I  had  every 
reason  to  expect  Miss  Richland's  refusal,  as  I  did 
everything  in  my  power  to  deserve  it.  Her  in- 
delicacy surprises  me  ! 

Olivia.  Sure,  Leontine,  there's  nothing  so  in- 
delicate in  being  sensible  of  your  merit.  If  so,  I 
fear,  I  shall  be  the  most  guilty  thing  alive  ! 

Leont.  But  you  mistake,  my  dear.  The  same 
attention  I  used  to  advance  my  merit  with  you, 
I  practised  to  lessen  it  with  her.  What  more 
could  I  do  ? 

Olivia.  Let  us  now  rather  consider  what's  to  be 
done.  We  have  both  dissembled  too  long — I  have 
always  been  asham'd — I  am  now  quite  weary  of  it. 
Surj,  I  could  never  have  undergone  so  much 
for  any  other  but  you. 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  221 

Leont.  And  you  shall  find  my  gratitude  equal  to 
your  kindest  compliance.  Though  our  friends 
should  totally  forsake  us,  Olivia,  we  can  draw 
upon  content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune. 

Olivia.  Then  why  should  we  defer  our  scheme  of 
humble  happiness,  when  it  is  now  in  our  power  ? 
I  may  be  the  favourite  of  your  father,  it  is  true  ; 
but  can  it  ever  be  thought,  that  his  present  kind- 
ness to  a  supposed  child,  will  continue  to  a  known 
deceiver  ? 

Leont.  I  have  many  reasons  to  believe  it  will. 
As  his  attachments  are  but  few,  they  are  lasting. 
His  own  marriage  was  a  private  one,  as  ours  may 
be.  Besides,  I  have  sounded  him  already  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  find  all  his  answers  exactly  to  our  wish. 
Nay,  by  an  expression  or  two  that  dropped  from 
him,  1  am  induced  to  think  he  knows  of  this  affair. 

Olivia.  Indeed  !  But  that  would  be  an  happi- 
ness too  great  to  be  expected. 

Leont.  However  it  be,  I'm  certain  you  have 
power  over  him  ;  and  am  persuaded,  if  you  informed 
him  of  our  situation,  that  he  would  be  disposed  to 
pardon  it. 

Olivia.  You  had  equal  expectations,  Leont ine, 
from  your  last  scheme  with  Miss  Richland,  which 
you  find  has  succeeded  most  wretchedly. 

Leont.  And  that's  the  best  reason  for  trying 
another. 

Olivia.   If  it  must  be  so,  I  submit. 

Leont.  As  we  could  wish,  he  comes  this  way. 
Now,  my  dearest  Olivia,  be  resolute.  I'll  just  retire 
within  hearing,  to  come  in  at  a  proper  time,  either 
to  share  your  danger,  or  confirm  yourvictory.  [Exit. 


222  PLAYS    OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croahet.  Yes,  I  must  forgive  her;  and  yet  not 
too  easily,  neither.  It  will  be  proper  to  keep  up 
the  decorums  of  resentment  a  little,  if  it  be  only  to 
impress  her  with  an  idea  of  my  authority. 

Olivia.  How  I  tremble  to  approach  him  ! — 
Might  I  presume,  sir — if  I  interrupt  you — 

Croaker.  No,  child,  where  I  have  an  affection, 
it  is  not  a  little  thing  can  interrupt  me.  Affection 
gets  over  little  things. 

Olivia.  Sir,  you're  too  kind  !  I'm  sensible  how 
ill  I  deserve  this  partiality.  Yet,  Heaven  knows, 
there  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  to  gain  it. 

Croaker.  And  you  have  but  too  well  succeeded, 
you  little  hussy,  you  !  With  those  endearing 
ways  of  yours,  on  my  conscience,  I  could  be 
brought  to  forgive  anything,  unless  it  were  a  very 
great  offence  indeed. 

Olivia.  But  mine  is  such  an  offence — when  you 
know  my  guilt — yes,  you  shall  know  it,  though  I 
feel  the  greatest  pain  in  the  confession. 

Croaker.  Why,  then,  if  it  be  so  very  great  a 
pain,  you  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble,  for  I 
know  every  syllable  of  the  matter  before  you  begin. 

Olivia.  Indeed  !    Then  I'm  undone  ! 

Croaker.  Ay,  miss,  you  wanted  to  steal  a  match, 
without  letting  me  know  it,  did  you  !  But  I'm 
not  worth  being  consulted,  I  suppose,  when  there's 
to  be  a  marriage  in  my  own  family!  No,  I'm  to 
have  no  hand  in  the  disposal  of  my  own  children  ! 
No,  I'm  nobody  !  I'm  to  be  a  mere  article  of 
family  lumber  ;  a  piece  of  cracked  china  to  be 
stuck  up  in  a  corner  ! 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  223 

Olivia.  Dear  sir,  nothing  but  the  dread  of  your 
authority  could  induce  us  to  conceal  it  from  you. 

Croaker.  No,  no,  my  consequence  is  no  more  ; 
I'm  as  little  minded  as  a  dead  Russian  in  winter, 
just  stuck  up  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  till  there 
comes  a  thaw — it  goes  to  my  heart  to  vex  her. 

Olivia.  I  was  prepared,  sir,  for  your  anger,  and 
despaired  of  pardon,  even  while  I  presumed  to  ask 
it.  But  your  severity  shall  never  abate  my  affec- 
tion, as  my  punishment  is  but  justice. 

Croaker.  And  yet  you  should  not  despair  neither, 
Livy.     We  ought  to  hope  all  for  the  best. 

Olivia.  And  do  you  permit  me  to  hope,  sir  ! 
Can  I  ever  expect  to  be  forgiven  ?  But  hope  has 
too  long  deceived  me  ! 

Croaker.  Why  then,  child,  it  shan't  deceive  you 
now,  for  I  forgive  you  this  very  moment.  I  for- 
give you  all  ;  and  now  you  are  indeed  my  daughter. 

Olivia.  O  transport !  This  kindness  overpowers 
me  ! 

Croaker.  I  was  always  against  severity  to  our 
children.  We  have  been  young  and  giddy  our- 
selves, and  we  can't  expect  boys  and  girls  to  be 
old  before  their  time. 

Olivia.  What  generosity  !  But  can  you  forget 
the  many  falsehoods,  the  dissimulation 

Croaker.  You  did  indeed  dissemble,  you  urchin, 
you  ;  but  where's  the  girl  that  won't  dissemble  for 
a  husband  !  My  wife  and  I  had  never  been  mar- 
ried, if  we  had  not  dissembled  a  little  beforehand  ! 

Olivia.  It  shall  be  my  future  care  never  to  put 
such  generosity  to  a  second  trial.  And  as  for  the 
partner  of  my  offence  and  folly,  from  his  native 


224  PLAYS   OF  GOLDSMITH. 

honour,  and  the  just  sense  he  has  of  his  duty,  I 
can  answer  for  him  that ■ 

Enter  Leon  tine. 

Leont.  Permit  him  thus  to  answer  for  himself. 
{Kneeling.}  T»hus,  sir,  let  me  speak  my  gratitude 
for  this  unmerited  forgiveness.  Yes,  sir,  this  even 
exceeds  all  your  former  tenderness  :  I  now  can 
boast  the  most  indulgent  of  fathers.  The  life,  be 
gave,  compared  to  this,  was  but  a  trifling  blessing  ! 

Croaker.  And,  good  sir,  who  sent  for  you,  with 
that  fine  tragedy  face,  and  flourishing  manner?  I 
don't  know  what  we  have  to  do  with  your  gratitude 
upon  this  occasion  ! 

Leont.  How,  sir  !  is  it  possible  to  be  silent  when 
so  much  obliged  ?  Would  you  refuse  me  the  pleasure 
of  being  grateful?  Of  adding  my  thanks  to  my 
Olivia's  !  Of  sharing  in  the  transports  that  you  have 
thus  occasioned  ? 

Croaker.  Lord,  sir,  we  can  be  happy  enough, 
without  your  coming  in  to  make  up  the  party.  I 
don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  the  boy  all  this 
day  ;  he  has  got  into  such  a  rhodomontade  manner 
all  the  morning ! 

Leont.  But,  sir,  I  that  have  so  large  a  part  in  the 
benefit,  is  it  not  my  duty  to  show  my  joy?  Is  the 
being  admitted  to  your  favour  so  slight  an 
obligation  ?  Is  the  happiness  of  marrying  my 
Olivia  so  small  a  blessing  ? 

Croaker.  Marrying  Olivia  !  marrying  Olivia  ! 
marrying  his  own  sister  !  Sure  the  boy  is  out  of 
his  senses.     His  own  sister  ! 

Leont.   My  sister  ! 


THE    GOOD-NATUR'D   MAX.  22$ 

Olivia.  Sister  !  How  have  I  been  mistaken  ! 
(aside.) 

Leont.  Some  cursed  mistake  in  this  I  find. 
(aside. ) 

Croaker.  What  does  the  booby  mean,  or  has  he 
any  meaning.  Eh,  what  do  you  mean,  you  block- 
head, you  ? 

Leont.  Mean,  sir — why,  sir— only  when  my 
sister  is  to  be  married,  that  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
marrying  her,  sir  ;  that  is,  of  giving  her  away, 
sir — I  have  made  a  point  of  it. 

Croaker.  O,  is  that  all  ?  Give  her  away.  You 
have  made  a  point  of  it.  Then  you  had  as  good 
make  a  point  of  first  giving  away  yourself,  as  I'm 
going  to  prepare  the  writings  between  you  and 
Miss  Richland  this  very  minute.  What  a  fuss  is 
here  about  nothing  !  Why,  what's  the  matter  now  ? 
I  thought  I  had  made  you  at  least  as  happy  as  you 
could  wish. 

Olivia.   O  !  yes,  sir,  very  happy. 

Croaker.  Do  you  foresee  anything,  child  ?  You 
look  as  if  you  did.  I  think  if  anything  was  to  be 
foreseen,  I  have  as  sharp  a  look  out  as  another  : 
and  yet  I  foresee  nothing.  [Exit. 

Leon-tine,  Olivia. 
Olivia.  What  can  it  mean  ? 
Leont.  He  knows  something,  and  yet  for  my  life, 
I  can't  tell  what. 

Olivia.  It  can't  be  the  connection  between  us, 
I'm  pretty  certain. 

Leont.  Whatever  it  be,  my  dearest,  I'm  resolved 
to  put  it  out  of  fortune's  power  to  repeat  our  mor- 

Q 


226  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

tification.  I'll  haste,  and  prepare  for  our  journey 
to  Scotland  this  very  evening.  My  friend  Honey- 
wood  has  promised  me  his  advice  and  assistance. 
I'll  go  to  him,  and  repose  our  distresses  on  his 
friendly  bosom :  and  I  know  so  much  of  his  honest 
heart,  that  if  he  can't  relieve  our  uneasinesses,  he 
will  at  least  share  them.  {Exeunt. 


END  OF  THE  SECOND  ACT. 


MM 


^ 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  227 

ACT   THE    THIRD. 

Scene. —  Young  Honeywood 's  House. 

Bailiff,  Honeywood,  Follower. 

Bailiff. 
OOKY,  sir,  I  have  arrested  as  good  men 
as  you  in  my  time  :  no  disparagement 
of  you  neither.  Men  that  would  go 
forty  guineas  on  a  game  of  cribbage. 
I  challenge  the  town  to  shew  a  man  in  more  gen- 
teeler  practice  than  myself ! 

Honeyw.  Without  all  question,  Mr. 1  forget 

your  name,  sir? 

Bailiff.  How  can  you  forget  what  you  never 
knew  ?  he,  he,  he  ! 

Honeyw.  May  I  beg  leave  to  ask  your  name? 

Bailiff.  Yes,  you  may. 

Honeyw.  Then,  pray,  sir,  what  is  your  name,  sir? 

Bailiff.  That  I  didn't  promise  to  tell  you.  He, 
he,  he  !  A  joke  breaks  no  bones,  as  we  say  among 
us  that  practice  the  law. 

Honeyw.  You  may  have  reason  for  keeping  it  a 
secret,  perhaps? 

Bailiff.  The  law  does  nothing  without  reason. 
I'm  ashamed  to  tell  my  name  to  no  man,  sir.  If 
you  can  shew  cause,  as  why,  upon  a  special  capus, 
that  I  should  prove  my  name— But,  come,  Timothy 
Twitch  is  my  name.  And,  now  you  know  my 
name,  what  have  you  to  say  to  that  ? 


2z8  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Honeyw.  Nothing  in  the  world,  good  Mr. 
Twitch,  but  that  I  have  a  favour  to  ask,  that's  all. 

Bailiff.  Ay,  favours  are  more  easily  asked  than 
granted,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practice  the  law. 
1  have  taken  an  oath  against  granting  favours. 
Would  you  have  me  perjure  myself? 

Honeyw.  But  my  request  will  come  recommended 
in  so  strong  a  manner,  as  I  believe  you'll  have  no 
scruple  (pulling  out  his  purse).  The  thing  is  only 
this  :  I  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  discharge  this 
trifle  in  two  or  three  days  at  farthest  ;  but  as  I 
would  not  have  the  affair  known  for  the  world,  I 
have  thoughts  of  keeping  you,  and  your  good 
friend  here,  about  me,  till  the  debt  is  discharged  ; 
for  which  I  shall  be  properly  grateful.1 

Bailiff.  Oh  !  that's  another  maxum,  and  alto- 
gether within  my  oath.  For  certain,  if  an  honest 
man  is  to  get  anything  by  a  thing,  there's  no  reason 
why  all  things  should  not  be  done  in  civility. 

Honeyw.  Doubtless,  all  trades  must  live,  Mr. 
Twitch  ;  and  yours  is  a  necessary  one. 

{Gives  him  money. 

Bailiff.  Oh  !  your  honour  ;  I  hope  your  honour 
takes  nothing  amiss  as  I  docs,  as  I  does  nothing 
but  my  duty  in  so  doing.  I'm  sure  no  man  can  say 
I  ever  give  a  gentleman,  that  was  a  gentleman,  ill 
usage.  If  I  saw  that  a  gentleman  was  a  gentleman, 
I  have  taken  money  not  to  see  him  for  ten  weeks 
together. 

Honeyzv.  Tenderness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch. 

[1  The  elaboration  of  this  expedient  was  perhaps  suggested 
by  an  anecdote  of  Steele,  who  is  said  to  have  put  his  bailiffs 
into  livery.     See  Steele,  (Liigtisk  Worthies),  1SS6,  p.  222.] 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  22l) 

Bailiff.  Ay,  sir,  it's  a  perfect  treasure.  I  love 
to  see  a  gentleman  with  a  tender  heart.  I  don't 
know,  but  I  think  I  have  a  tender  heart  myself. 
If  all  that  I  have  lost  by  my  heart  was  put  together, 
it  would  make  a— but  no  matter  for  that. 

Honeyw.  Don't  account  it  lost,  Mr.  Twitch. 
The  ingratitude  of  the  world  can  never  deprive  us 
of  the  conscious  happiness  of  having  acted  with 
humanity  ourselves. 

Bailiff.  Humanity,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  It's  better 
than  gold.  I  love  humanity.  People  may  say 
that  we  in  our  way  have  no  humanity;  but  I'll 
show  you  my  humanity  this  moment.  There's  my 
follower  here,  little  Flanigan,  with  a  wife  and  four 
children,  a  guinea  or  two  would  be  more  to  him, 
than  twice  as  much  to  another.  Now,  as  I  can't 
shew  him  any  humanity  myself,  I  must  beg  leave 
you'll  do  it  for  me. 

Honeyw.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Twitch,  yours  is  a 
most  powerful  recommendation. 

[Giving  money  to  the  follower. 

Bailiff.  Sir,  you're  a  gentleman.  I  see  you 
know  what  to  do  with  your  money.  But,  to  busi- 
ness :  we  are  to  be  with  you  here  as  your  friends, 
I  suppose.  But  set  in  case  company  comes. — 
Little  Flanigan  here,  to  be  sure,  has  a  good  face, 
a  very  good  face  :  but  then,  he  is  a  little  seedy,  as 
we  say  among  us  that  practice  the  law.  Not  well 
in  clothes.     Smoke  l  the  pocket  holes. 

Honeyw.  Well,  that  shall  be  remedied  without 
delay. 

f1  "Smoke"— here  ="  observe."  Now-a-days  Mr.  Twitch 
would  say  "  twig."] 


23o  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.   Sir,  Miss  Richland  is  below. 

Honeyw.  How  unlucky  !  Detain  her  a  moment. 
We  must  improve,  my  good  friend,  little  Mr. 
Flanigan's'appearance  first.  Here,  let  Mr.  Flani- 
gan  have  a  suit  of  my  clothes — quick — the  brown 
and  silver — Do  you  hear  ? 

Servant.  That  your  honour  gave  away  to  the 
begging  gentleman  that  makes  verses,  because  it 
was  as  good  as  new. 

Honeyw.  The  white  and  gold,  then. 

Servant.  That,  your  honour,  I  made  bold  to  sell, 
because  it  was  good  for  nothing. 

Honeyw.  Well,  the  first  that  comes  to  hand, 
then.  The  blue  and  gold.  I  believe  Mr.  Flanigan 
will  look  best  in  blue.  [Exit  Flanigan. 

Bailiff.  Rabbit  me,  but  little  Flanigan  will 
look  well  in  anything.  Ah,  if  your  honour  knew 
that  bit  of  flesh  as  well  as  I  do,  you'd  be  perfectly 
in  love  with  him.  There's  not  a  prettier  scout  in 
the  four  counties  after  a  shy-cock  than  he.  Scents 
like  a  hound;  sticks  like  a  weazel.  He  was 
master  of  the  ceremonies  to  the  black  queen  of 
Morocco  when  I  took  him  to  follow  me.  (Re-enter 
Flanigan.)  Heh,  ccod,  I  think  he  looks  so  well, 
that  I  don't  care  if  I  have  a  suit  from  the  same 
place  for  myself. 

Honeyw.  Well,  well,  I  hear  the  lady  coming. 
Dear  Mr,  Twitch,  I  beg  you'll  give  your  friend 
directions  not  to  speak.  As  for  yourself,  I  know 
you  will  say  nothing  without  being  directed. 

Bailiff.  Never  you  fear  me,  Fll  shew  the  lady 


Tllk  GOOD-NATUR'D    MAN.  231 

that  I  have  something  to  say  for  myself  as  well  as 
another.  One  man  has  one  way  of  talking,  and 
another  man  has  another,  that's  all  the  difference 
between  them. 

Enter  Miss  Richland  and  her  Maid. 

Miss  Rich.  You'll  be  surprised,  sir,  with  this 
visit.  But  you  know  I'm  yet  to  thank  you  for 
choosing  my  little  library. 

Honeyw.  Thanks,  madam,  are  unnecessary,  as 
it  was  I  that  was  obliged  by  your  commands. 
Chairs  here.  Two  of  my  very  good  friends,  Mr. 
Twitch  and  Mr.  Flanigan.  Pray,  gentlemen,  sit 
without  ceremony. 

Miss  Rich,  {aside.)  Who  can  these  odd-looking 
men  be  ?  I  fear  it  is  as  I  was  informed.  It  must 
be  so. 

Bailiff  (after  a  faitse).  Pretty  weather,  very 
pretty  weather  for  the  time  of  the  year,  madam. 

Follo'ver.  Very  good  circuit  weather  in  the 
country. 

Honeyw.  You  officers  are  generally  favourites 
among  the  ladies.  My  friends,  madam,  have  been 
upon  very  disagreeable  duty,  I  assure  you.  The 
fair  should,  in  some  measure,  recompense  the  toils 
of  the  brave. 

Miss  Rich.  Our  officers  do  indeed  deserve  every 
favour.  The  gentlemen  are  in  the  marine  service, 
I  presume,  sir? 

Honeyw.  Why,  madam,  they  do — occasionally 
serve  in  the  Fleet,  madam  !     A  dangerous  service  ! 

Miss  Rich.  I'm  told  so.  And  I  own,  it  has 
often  surprised  me,  that,  while  we  have  had  so 


232  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

many  instances  of  bravery  there,  we  have  had  so 
few  of  wit  at  home  to  praise  it. 

Honeyw.  I  grant,  madam,  that  our  poets  have 
not  written  as  our  soldiers  have  fought  ;  but  they 
have  done  all  they  could,  and  Hawke  or  Amherst 
could  do  no  more. 

Miss  Rich.  I'm  quite  displeased  when  I  see  a 
fine  subject  spoiled  by  a  dull  writer. 

Honeyw.  We  should  not  be  so  severe  against 
dull  writers,  madam.  It  is  ten  to  one,  but  the 
dullest  writer  exceeds  the  most  rigid  French  critic 
who  presumes  to  despise  him. 

Follower.  Damn  the  French,  the  parle-vous,  and 
all  that  belongs  to  them  ! 

Miss  Rich.  Sir  ! 

Honeyw.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  honest  Mr.  Flanigan  !  A 
true  English  officer,  madam  ;  he's  not  contented 
with  beating  the  French,  but  he  will  scold  them 
too. 

Miss  Rich.  Yet,  Mr.  Honeywood,  this  does  not 
convince  me  but  that  severity  in  criticism  is  neces- 
sary. It  was  our  first  adopting  the  severity  of 
French  taste,  that  has  brought  them  in  turn  to 
taste  us. 

Bailiff.  Taste  us  !  By  the  Lord,  madam,  they 
devour  us  !  Give  Monseers  but  a  taste,  and  I'll 
be  damned,  but  they  come  in  for  a  bellyful  ! 

Miss  Rich.   Very  extraordinary,  this  ! 

Follower.  But  very  true.  What  makes  the  bread 
rising :  the  parle-vous  that  devour  us.  What 
makes  the  mutton  fivepence  a  pound  :  the  parle- 
vous  that  eat  it  up.  What  makes  the  beer  three 
pence  half-penny  a  pot 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D   MAN.  ?33 

Honeyw.  Ah  !  the  vulgar  rogues,  all  will  be  out  ! 
Right,  gentlemen,  very  right,  upon  my  word,  ami 
quite  to  the  purpose.  They  draw  a  parallel,madam, 
between  the  mental  taste,  and  that  of  our  senses. 
We  are  injured  as  much  by  French  severity  in  the 
one,  as  by  French  rapacity  in  the  other.  That's 
their  meaning. 

Miss  Rich.  Though  I  don't  see  the  force  of  the 
parallel,  yet,  I'll  own,  that  we  should  sometimes 
pardon  books,  as  we  do  our  friends,  that  have 
now  and  then  agreeable  absurdities  to  recommend 
them. 

Bailiff.  That's  all  my  eye  !  The  King  only  can 
pardon,  as  the  law  says ;  for  set  in  case 

Honeyw.  I'm  quite  of  your  opinion,  sir  !  I  see 
the  whole  drift  of  your  argument.  Yes,  certainly, 
our  presuming  to  pardon  any  work,  is  arrogating 
a  power  that  belongs  to  another.  If  all  have  power 
to  condemn,  what  writer  can  be  free  ? 

Bailiff.  By  his  habus  corpus.  His  habus  corpus 
can  set  him  free  at  any  time.      For  set  in  case 

Hcneyw,  I'm  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  hint. 
If,  madam,  as  my  friend  observes,  our  laws  are  so 
careful  of  a  gentleman's  person,  sure  we  ought  to 
be  equally  careful  of  his  dearer  part,  his  fame. 

Follower.  Ay,  but  if  so  be  a  man's  nabbed,  you 
know 

Honeyw.  Mr.  Flanigan,  if  you  spoke  for  ever, 
you  could  not  improve  the  last  observation.  For 
my  own  part,  I  think  it  conclusive. 

Bailiff.  As  for  the  matter  of  that,  mayhap 

Honeyw.  Nay,  sir,  give  me  leave  in  this  instance 
to  be  positive.     For  where  is  the  necessity  of  ecu- 


434  PLAVS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

suring  works  without  genius,  which  must,  shortly 
sink  of  themselves  :  what  is  it,  but  aiming  our  un- 
necessary blow  against  a  victim  already  under  the 
hands  of  justice? 

Bailiff.  Justice  !  O,  by  the  elevens,  if  you  talk 
about  justice,  I  think  I  am  at  home  there ;  for,  in 
a  course  of  law 

Honeyw.  My  dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  discern  what 
you'd  be  at  perfectly,  and  I  believe  the  lady  must 
be  sensible  of  the  art  with  which  it  is  introduced. 
I  suppose  you  perceive  the  meaning,  madam,  of 
his  course  of  law  ? 

Miss  Rich.  I  protest,  sir,  I  do  not.  I  perceive 
only  that  you  answer  one  gentleman  before  he 
has  finished,  and  the  other  before  he  has  well 
begun  ! 

Bailiff.  Madam,  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I 
will  make  the  matter  out.  This  here  question  is 
about  severity  and  justice,  and  pardon,  and  the  like 
of  they.     Now,  to  explain  the  thing 

Honeyw.  {aside.)     O  !  curse  your  explanations. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Mr.  Leontine,  sir,  below,  desires  to 
speak  with  you  upon  earnest  business. 

Honeyw.  Thai's  lucky  {Aside). — Dear  madam, 
you'll  excuse  me,  and  my  good  friends  here,  for  a 
few  minutes.  There  are  books,  madam,  to  amuse 
you.  Come,  gentlemen,  you  know  I  make  no 
ceremony  with  such  friends.  After  you,  sir.  Ex- 
cuse me.  Well,  if  I  must.  But  I  know  your 
natural  politeness  ! 

Bailiff.  Before  and  behind,  you  know. 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  235 

Follower.  Ay,  ay,  before  and  behind,  before  and 
behind  ! 
[Exeunt  Honeywood,  Bailiff,  and  Follower. 

Miss  Rich.  What  can  all  this  mean,  Garnet  ? 

Gar.  Mean,  madam?  why,  what  should  it 
mean,  but  what  Mr.  Lofty  sent  you  here  to  see? 
These  people  he  calls  officers,  are  officers  sure 
enough  :  sheriff's  officers  ;  bailiffs,  madam  ! 

Miss  Rich.  Ay,  it  is  certainly  so.  Well,  though 
his  perplexities  are  far  from  giving  me  pleasure, 
yet,  I  own,  there's  something  very  ridiculous 
in  them,  and  a  just  punishment  for  his  dissimula- 
tion. 

Gar.  And  so  they  are.  But  I  wonder,  madam, 
that  the  lawyer  you  just  employed  to  pay  his 
debts,  and  set  him  free,  has  not  done  it  by  this 
time.  He  ought  at  least  to  have  been  here  before 
now.  But  lawyers  are  always  more  ready  to  get  a 
man  into  troubles,  than  out  of  them! 

Enter  Sir  William. 
Sir  Will.  For  Miss  Richland  to  undertake 
setting  him  free,  I  own,  was  quite  unexpected.  It 
has  totally  unhinged  my  schemes  to  reclaim  him. 
Yet,  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  find,  that,  among  a 
number  of  worthless  friendships,  he  has  made  one 
acquisition  of  real  value  ;  for  there  must  be  some 
softer  passion  on  her  side  that  prompts  this  gene- 
rosity. Ha  !  here  before  me  :  Fll  endeavour  to 
sound  her  affections.  Madam,  as  I  am  the  person 
that  have  had  some  demands  upon  the  gentleman 
of  this  house,  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  if,  before  I 
enlarged  him,  I  wanted  to  see  yourself! 


236  PLAVS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Miss  Rich.  The  precaution  was  very  unneces- 
sary, sir  !  I  suppose  your  wants  were  only  such  as 
my  agent  had  power  to  satisfy. 

Sir  Will.  Partly,  madam.  But  I  was  also 
willing  you  should  be  fully  apprized  of  the  charac- 
ter of  the  gentleman  you  intended  to  serve. 

Miss  Rich.  It  must  come,  sir,  with  a  very  ill 
grace  from  you.  To  censure  it,  after  what  you 
have  done,  would  look  like  malice  ;  and  to  speak 
favourably  of  a  character  you  have  oppressed, 
would  be  impeaching  your  own.  And,  sure,  his 
tenderness,  his  humanity,  his  universal  friendship, 
may  atone  for  many  faults  ! 

Sir  Will.  That  friendship,  madam,  which  is 
exerted  in  too  wide  a  sphere,  becomes  totally 
useless.  Our  bounty,  like  a  drop  of  water,  dis- 
appears when  diffused  too  widely.  They,  who 
pretend  most  to  this  universal  benevolence,  are 
either  deceivers,  or  dupes.  Men  who  desire  to 
cover  their  private  ill-nature,  by  a  pretended  regard 
for  all ;  or,  men  who,  reasoning  themselves  into 
false  feelings,  are  more  earnest  in  pursuit  of  splen- 
did, than  of  useful  virtues. 

Miss  Rich.  I  am  surprised,  sir,  to  hear  one  who 
has  probably  been  a  gainer  by  the  folly  of  others, 
so  severe  in  his  censure  of  it. 

Sir  Will.  Whatever  I  may  have  gained  by  folly, 
madam,  you  see  I  am  willing  to  prevent  your  losing 
by  it. 

Miss  Rich.  Your  cares  for  me,  sir,  are  unneces- 
sary !  I  always  suspect  those  services  which  are 
denied  where  they  are  wanted,  and  offered,  perhaps 
in  hopes  of  a  refusal.     No,  sir,  my  directions  have 


THE  GOOD-NATURE D  MAN.  237 

been  given,  and  I  insist  upon  their  being  complied 
with. 

Sir  Will.  Thou  amiable  woman  !  I  can  no 
longer  contain  the  expressions  of  my  gratitude  : 
my  pleasure.  You  see  before  you,  one  who  has 
been  equally  careful  of  his  interest  :  one  who  has 
for  some  time  been  a  concealed  spectator  of  his 
follies,  and  only  punished  in  hopes  to  reclaim  them 
—His  uncle ! 

Miss  Rick.  Sir  William  Honey  wood  !  You 
amaze  me.  How  shall  I  conceal  my  confusion  ? 
I  fear,  sir,  you'll  think  I  have  i>een  too  forward  in 
my  services,  I  confess  I 

Sir  Will.  Don't  make  any  apologies,  madam. 
I  only  find  myself  unable  to  repay  the  obligation. 
And  yet,  I  have  been  trying  my  interest  of  late  to 
save  you.  Having  learnt,  madam,  that  you  had 
some  demands  upon  government,  I  have,  though 
unasked,  been  your  solicitor  there. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir,  I'm  infinitely  obliged  to  your 
intentions.  But  my  guardian  has  employed  another 
gentleman  who  assures  him  of  success. 

Sir  Will.  Who,  the  important  little  man  that 
visits  here  !  Trust  me,  madam,  he's  quite  con- 
temptible among  men  in  power,  and  utterly  unable 
to  serve  you.  Mr.  Lofty's  promises  are  much  better 
known  to  people  of  fashion  than  his  person,  I 
assure  you. 

Miss  Rich.  How  have  we  been  deceived  !  As 
sure  as  can  be,  here  he  comes. 

Sir  Will.  Does  he?  Remember  I'm  to  continue 
unknown.  My  return  to  England  has  not  as  yet 
been  made  public.   With  what  impudence  he  enters! 


2^8  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Let  the  chariot — let  my  chariot  drive  off, 
I'll  visit  to  his  Grace's  in  a  chair.  Miss  Richland 
here  before  me  !  Punctual,  as  usual,  to  the  calls  of 
humanity.  I'm  very  sorry,  madam,  things  of  this 
kind  should  happen,  especially  to  a  man  I  have 
shewn  everywhere,  and  carried  amongst  us  as  a 
particular  acquaintance. 

Miss  Rich.  I  find,  sir,  you  have  the  art  of  making 
the  misfortunes  of  others  your  own. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  what  can  a  private  man 
like  me,  do  ?  One  man  can't  do  everything ;  and 
then,  I  do  so  much  in  this  way  every  day :  Let 
me  see,  something  considerable  might  be  done  for 
him  by  subscription  ;  it  could  not  fail  if  I  carried 
the  list.  I'll  undertake  to  set  down  a  brace  of 
dukes,  two  dozen  lords,  and  half  the  lower  house, 
at  my  own  peril  ! 

Sir  Will.  And  after  all,  it's  more  than  probable, 
sir,  he  might  reject  the  offer  of  such  powerful 
patronage. 

Lofty.  Then,  madam,  what  can  we  do  ?  You 
know  I  never  make  promises.  In  truth,  I  once  or 
twice  tried  to  do  something  with  him  in  the  way 
of  business  ;  but,  as  I  often  told  his  uncle,  Sir 
William  Honeywood,  the  man  was  utterly  im- 
practicable. 

•Sir  Will.  His  uncle  !  Then  that  gentleman,  I 
suppose,  is  a  particular  friend  of  yours. 

Lofty.  Meaning  me,  sir?— Yes,  madam,  as  I 
often  said,  my  dear  Sir  William,  you  are  sensible 
I  would  do  anything  as  far  as  my  poor  interest 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D   MAN.  23g 

goes,  to  serve  your  family  ;  but  what  can  be  done  ? 
there's  no  procuring  first-rate  places  for  ninth-rate 
abilities. 

Miss  Rich.  I  have  heard  of  Sir  William  Honey- 
wood ;  he's  abroad  in  employment;  he  confided 
in  your  judgment,  I  suppose. 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  madam ;  I  believe  Sir  William 
has  some  reason  to  confide  in  my  judgment ;  one 
little  reason,  perhaps. 

Miss  Rich.  Pray,  sir,  what  was  it  ? 

Lofty.  Why,  madam — but  let  it  go  no  further- 
it  was  I  procured  him  his  place. 

Sir  Will.  Did  you,  sir  ? 

Lofty.  Either  you  or  I,  sir. 

Miss  Rich.  This,  Mr.  Lofty,  was  very  kind, 
indeed. 

Lofty.  I  did  love  him,  to  be  sure  ;  he  had  some 
amusing  qualities  ;  no  man  was  fitter  to  be  toast- 
master  to  a  club,  or  had  a  better  head. 

Miss  Rich.  A  better  head  ? 

Lofty.  Ay,  at  a  bottle.  To  be  sure,  he  was  as 
dull  as  a  choice  spirit ;  but  hang  it,  he  was  grate- 
ful, very  grateful ;  and  gratitude  hides  a  multitude 
of  faults  ! 

Sir  Will.  He  might  have  reason,  perhaps.  His 
place  is  pretty  considerable,  I'm  told. 

Lofty.  A  trifle,  a  mere  trifle,  among  us  men  of 
business.  The  truth  is,  he  wanted  dignity  to  fill 
up  a  greater. 

Sir  Will.  Dignity  of  person,  do  you  mean,  sir? 
I'm  told  he's  much  about  my  size  and  figure,  sir. 

Lofty.  Ay,  tall  enough  for  a  marching  regiment ; 
but  then  he  wanted  a  something — a  consequence 


240  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

of  form — a  kind  of  a — I  believe  the  lady  perceives 
my  meaning. 

Miss  Rich.  O  perfectly  !  you  courtiers  can  do 
anything,  I  see ! 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  all  this  is  but  a  mere 
exchange  ;  we  do  greater  tilings  for  one  another 
every  day.  Why,  as  thus,  now  :  let  me  suppose 
you  the  first  lord  of  the  Treasury,  you  have  an  em- 
ployment in  you  that  I  want  ;  I  have  a  place  in 
me  that  you  want ;  do  me  here,  do  you  there  :  in- 
terest of  both  sides,  few  words,  flat,  done  and  done, 
and  its  over. 

Sir  Will.  A  thought  strikes  me.  {Aside.) — Now 
you  mention  Sir  William  Iloneywood,  madam  ; 
and  as  he  seems,  sir,  an  acquaintance  of  yours  ; 
you'll  be  glad  to  hear  he's  arrived  from  Italy  ;  I 
had  it  from  a  friend  who  knows  him  as  well  as 
he  does  me,  and  you  may  depend  on  my  infor- 
mation. 

Lofty.  The  devil  he  is  ! — If  I  had  known  that, 
we  should  not  have  been  quite  so  well  acquainted. 
{Aside. ) 

Sir  Will.  lie  is  certainly  returned  ;  and  as  this 
gentleman  is  a  friend  of  yours,  he  can  be  of  signal 
service  to  us,  by  introdue-ing  me  to  him  ;  there  are 
some  papers  relative  to  your  affairs,  that  require 
dispatch  and  his  inspection. 

Miss  Rich.  This  gentleman,  Mr.  Lofty,  is  a  per- 
son employed  in  my  affairs  :  I  know  you'll  serve  us  ! 

L.ofty.  My  dear  madam,  I  live  but  to  serve  you. 
Sir  William  shall  even  wait  upon  him,  if  you  think 
proper  to  command  it, 

Sir  Will.  That  would  be  quite  unnecessary. 


THE  COOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  241 

Lofty.  Well,  we  must  introduce  you,  then.  Call 
upon  me — let  me  see — ay,  in  two  days. 

Sir  Will.  Now,  or  the  opportunity  will  be  lost 
for  ever. 

Lofty.  Well,  if  it  must  be  now,  now  let  it  be. 
But,  damn  it,  that's  unfortunate  ;  my  lord  Grig's 
cursed  Pensacola  business  comes  on  this  veiy  hour, 
and  I'm  engaged  to  attend — another  time — 

Sir  Will.  A  short  letter  to  Sir  William  will  do. 

Lofty.  You  shall  have  it ;  yet,  in  my  opinion,  a 
letter  is  a  very  bad  way  of  going  to  work  ;  face  to 
face,  that's  my  way. 

Sir  Will.  The  letter,  sir,  will  do  quite  as  well. 

Lofty.  Zounds,  sir,  do  you  pretend  to  direct 
me  ;  direct  me  in  the  business  of  office  ?  Do  you 
know  me,  sir  ?  who  am  I  ? 

Miss  Rich.  Dear  Mr.  Lofty,  this  request  is  not 
so  much  his  as  mine  ;  if  my  commands — but  you 
despise  my  power. 

Lofty.  Delicate  creature  !  your  commands  could 
even  control  a  debate  at  midnight ;  to  a  power  so 
constitutional,  I  am  all  obedience  and  tranquillity. 
He  shall  have  a  letter;  where  is  my  secretary? 
Dubardieu  !  And  yet  I  protest  I  don't  like  this 
way  of  doing  business.  I  think  if  I  spoke  first  to 
Sir  William — But  you  will  have  it  so. 

[Exit  with  Miss  Rich. 

Sir  William  alone. 
Sir  Will.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  This,  too,  is  one  of  my 
nephew's  hopeful  associates.     O  vanity,  thou  con- 
stant deceiver,  how  do  all  thy  efforts  to  exalt,  serve 
but  to  sink  us.    Thy  false  colourings,  like  those  cm- 

R 


242  rLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

ployed  to  heighten  beauty,  only  seem  to  mend  that 
bloom  which  they  contribute  to  destroy.  I'm  not 
displeased  at  this  interview  ;  exposing  this  fellow's 
impudence  to  the  contempt  it  deserves,  may  be  of 
use  to  my  design  ;  at  least,  if  he  can  reflect,  it 
will  be  of  use  to  himself. 

Enter  Jarvis. 

Sir  Will.  How  now,  Jarvis,  where 's  your  mas- 
ter, my  nephew  ? 

Jarvis.  At  his  wit's  end,  I  believe ;  he's  scarce 
gotten  out  of  one  scrape,  but  he's  running  his  head 
into  another. 

Sir  Will.  How  so  ? 

Jarvis.  The  house  has  but  just  been  cleared  of 
the  bailiffs,  and  now  he's  again  engaging  tooth  and 
nail  in  assisting  old  Croaker's  son  to  patch  up  a 
clandestine  match  with  the  young  lady  that  passes  in 
the  house  for  his  sister  ! 

Sir  Will.  Ever  busy  to  serve  others. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  anybody  but  himself.  The  young 
couple,  it  seems,  are  just  setting  out  for  Scotland, 
and  he  supplies  them  with  money  for  the  journey. 

Sir  Will.  Money  !  how  is  he  able  to  supply 
others,  who  has  scarce  any  for  himself? 

Jarvis.  Why,  there  it  is  ;  he  has  no  money,  that's 
true  ;  but  then,  as  he  never  said  no  to  any  request 
in  his  life,  he  has  given  them  a  bill  drawn  by  a 
friend  of  his  upon  a  merchant  in  the  city,  which  I 
am  to  get  changed  ;  for  you  must  know  that  I  am 
to  go  with  them  to  Scotland  myself. 

Sir  Will.   How  ! 

Jarvis.   It  seems  the  young  gentleman  is  obliged 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  243 

to  take  a  different  road  from  his  mistress,  as  he  is 
to  call  upon  an  uncle  of  his  that  lives  out  of  the 
way,  in  order  to  prepare  a  place  for  their  reception, 
when  they  return  ;  so  they  have  borrowed  me  from 
my  master,  as  the  properest  person  to  attend  the 
young  lady  down. 

Sir  Will.  To  the  land  of  matrimony  !  A 
pleasant  journey,  Jarvis. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  but  I'm  only  to  have  all  the  fatigues 
on't. 

Sir  Will.  Well,  it  may  be  shorter,  and  less 
fatiguing  than  you  imagine.  I  know  but  too  much 
of  the  young  lady's  family  and  connexions,  whom 
I  have  seen  abroad.  I  have  also  discovered  that 
Miss  Richland  is  not  indifferent  to  my  thoughtless 
nephew  :  and  will  endeavour,  though  I  fear,  in  vain, 
to  establish  that  connexion.  But,  come,  the  letter 
I  wait  for  must  be  almost  finished  ;  I'll  let  you 
further  into  my  intentions,  in  the  next  room. 

[Exeunt. 


END  OF  THE  THIRD   ACT. 


f»te 


244  PL  A  VS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


ACT   THE   FOURTH. 

Scene. — Croaker's  House. 
Lofty. 

Lofty. 
ELL,  sine  the  devil's  in  me  of  late,  for 
running  my  head  into  such  defiles,  as 
nothing  but  a  genius  like  my  own  could 
draw  me  from.  I  was  formerly  con- 
tented to  husband  out  my  places  and  pensions  with 
some  degree  of  frugality ;  but,  curse  it,  of  late  I 
have  given  away  the  whole  Court  Register  in  less 
time  than  they  could  print  the  title  page  ;  yet,  hang 
it,  why  scruple  a  lie  or  two  to  come  at  a  fine  girl, 
when  I  every  day  tell-  a  thousand  for  nothing. 
Ha  !  Honeywood  here  before  me.  Could  Miss 
Richland  have  set  him  at  liberty  ? 

Enter  Honeywood. 
Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  abroad 
again.  I  find  my  concurrence  was  not  necessary 
in  your  unfortunate  affairs.  I  had  put  things  in  a 
train  to  do  your  business  ;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say  what  I  intended  doing. 

Honeyw.  It  was  unfortunate,  indeed,  sir.  But 
what  adds  to  my  uneasiness  is,  that  while  you  seem 
to  be  acquainted  with  my  misfortune,  I,  myself, 
continue  still  a  stranger  to  my  benefactor. 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  24s 

Lojiy.  How!  not  know  the  friend  that  served  you? 

Honeyw.  Can't  guess  at  the  person. 

Lofty.  Enquire. 

Honeyw.  I  have,  but  all  I  can  learn  is,  that  he 
chooses  to  remain  concealed,  and  that  all  enquiry- 
must  be  fruitless. 

Lofty.  Must  be  fruitless  ? 

Honeyw.  Absolutely  fruitless. 

Lofty.  Sure  of  that  ? 

Honeyw.  Very  sure. 

Lofty.  Then  I'll  be  damned  if  you  shall  ever 
know  it  from  me. 

Honeyw.  How,  sir  ! 

Lofty.  I  suppose,  now,  Mr.  Honeyvvood,  you 
think  my  rent-roll  very  considerable,  and  that  I  have 
vast  sums  of  money  to  throw  away  ;  I  know  you 
do.    The  world,  to  be  sure,  says  such  things  of  me. 

Honeyw.  The  world,  by  what  I  learn,  is  no 
stranger  to  your  generosity.  But  where  does  this 
tend  ? 

Lofty.  To  nothing  ;  nothing  in  the  world.  The 
town,  to  be  sure,  when  it  makes  such  a  thing  as 
me  the  subject  of  conversation,  has  asserted,  that 
I  never  yet  patronized  a  man  of  merit. 

Honeyw.  I  have  heard  instances  to  the  contrary, 
even  from  yourself. 

Lofty.  Yes,  Honeyvvood,  and  there  are  instances 
to  the  contrary  that  you  shall  never  hear  from 
myself. 

Honeyw.  Ha,  dear  sir,  permit  me  to  ask  you  but 
one  question. 

Lofty.  Sir,  ask  me  noquestions  :  I  say,  sir,  ask  me 
no  questions  ;  I'll  be  damned  if  I  answer  them  ! 


246  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Honeyw.  I  will  ask  no  further.  My  friend,  my 
benefactor,  it  is,  it  must  be  here,  that  I  am  in- 
debted for  freedom,  for  honour.  Yes,  thou 
worthiest  of  men,  from  the  beginning  I  suspected 
it,  but  was  afraid  to  return  thanks  ;  which,  if  un- 
deserved, might  seem  reproaches. 

Lofty.  I  protest  I  don't  understand  all  this,  Mr. 
Honey  wood  !  You  treat  me  very  cavalierly.  I  do 
assure  you,  sir. — Blood,  sir,  can't  a  man  be  per- 
mitted to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  his  own  feelings  with- 
out all  this  parade  ? 

Honeyw.  Nay,  do  not  attempt  to  conceal  an 
action  that  adds  to  your  honour.  Your  looks, 
your  air,  your  manner,  all  confess  it. 

Lofty.  Confess  it,  sir  !  Torture  itself,  sir,  shall 
never  bring  me  to  confess  it.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I 
have  admitted  you  upon  terms  of  friendship.  Don't 
let  us  fall  out ;  make  me  happy,  and  let  this  be 
buried  in  oblivion.  You  know  I  hate  ostentation  ; 
you  know  I  do.  Come,  come,  Honeywood,  you 
know  I  always  loved  to  be  a  friend,  and  not  a 
patron.  I  beg  this  may  make  no  kind  of  distance 
between  us.  Come,  come,  you  and  I  must  be 
more  familiar — Indeed  we  must. 

Honeyiv.  Heavens !  Can  I  ever  repay  such 
friendship  !  Is  there  any  way  !  Thou  best  of  men, 
can  I  ever  return  the  obligation  ? 

Lofty.  A  bagatelle,  a  mere  bagatelle.  But  I  see 
your  heart  is  labouring  to  be  grateful.  You  shall 
be  grateful.  It  would  be  cruel  to  disappoint 
you. 

Honeyw.  I  low !  Teach  me  the  manner.  Is 
there  any  way  ? 


THE   GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  247 

Lofty.  From  this  moment  you're  mine.  Yes, 
my  friend,  you  shall  know  it — I'm  in  love ! 

Honeyw.  And  can  I  assist  you  ? 

Lofty.  Nobody  so  well. 

Honeyw.   In  what  manner  ?    I'm  all  impatience. 

Lofty.  You  shall  make  love  for  me. 

Honeyw.  And  to  whom  shall  I  speak  in  your 
favour? 

Lofty.  To  a  lady  with  whom  you  have  great 
interest,  I  assure  you.     Miss  Richland  ! 

LLoneyw.  Miss  Richland  ! 

Lofty.  Yes,  Miss  Richland.  She  has  struck  the 
blow  up  to  the  hilt  in  my  bosom,  by  Jupiter  ! 

LLoneyzu.  Heavens  !  was  ever  anything  more  un- 
fortunate !  It  is  too  much  to  be  endured. 

Lofty.  Unfortunate,  indeed  !  And  yet  I  can 
endure  it,  till  you  have  opened  the  affair  to  her  for 
me.  Between  ourselves,  I  think  she  likes  me. 
I'm  not  apt  to  boast,  but  I  think  she  does. 

Honeyw.  Indeed  !  But  do  you  know  the  person 
you  apply  to  ? 

Lofty.  Yes,  I  know  you  are  her  friend  and  mine  : 
that's  enough.  To  you,  therefore,  I  commit  the 
success  of  my  passion.  I'll  say  no  more,  let  friend- 
ship do  the  rest.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  if  at  any 
time  my  little  interest  can  be  of  service — but,  hang 
it,  I'll  make  no  promises — you  know  my  interest  is 
yours  at  any  time.  No  apologies,  my  friend,  I'll 
not  be  answered,  it  shall  be  so.  {Exit. 

Honeyw.  Open,  generous,  unsuspecting  man  ! 
He  little  thinks  that  I  love  her  too  ;  and  with  such 
an  ardent  passion  ! — But  then  it  was  ever  but  a 
\ain  and  hopeless  one  \  my  torment,  my  persecu- 


343  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

tion !  What  shall  I  do !  Love,  friendship,  a 
hopeless  passion,  a  deserving  friend  !  Love,  that 
has  been  my  tormentor;  a  friend,  that  has,  perhaps, 
distressed  himself  to  serve  me.  It  shall  be  so. 
Yes,  I  will  discard  the  fondling  hope  from  my 
bosom,  and  exert  all  my  influence  in  his  favour. 
And  yet  to  see  her  in  the  possession  of  another  ! — 
Insupportable.  But  then  to  betray  a  generous, 
trusting  friend  ! — Worse,  worse.  Yes,  I'm  re- 
solved. Let  me  but  be  the  instrument  of  their 
happiness,  and  then  quit  a  country,  where  I  must 
for  ever  despair  of  finding  my  own.  [Exit. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Garnet,  who  carries  a 
Milliner's  Box. 

Olivia.  Dear  me,  I  wish  this  journey  were  over. 
No  news  of  Jarvis  yet  ?  I  believe  the  old  peevish 
creature  delays  purely  to  vex  me . 

Gar.  Why,  to  be  sure,  madam,  I  did  hear  him 
say  a  little  snubbing  before  marriage  would  teach 
you  to  bear  it  the  better  afterwards. 

Olivia.  To  be  gone  a  full  hour,  though  he  had 
only  to  get  a  bill  changed  in  the  city  !  How  pro- 
voking ! 

Car.  I'll  lay  my  life,  Mr.  Leontine,  that  had 
twice  as  much  to  do,  is  setting  off  by  this  time 
from  his  inn :  and  here  you  are  left  behind. 

Olivia.  Well,  let  us  be  prepared  for  his  coming, 
however.  Are  you  sure  you  have  omitted  nothing, 
Garnet  ? 

Gar.  Not  a  stick,  madam — all's  here.  Yet  I 
wish  you  could  take  the  white  and  silver  to  be 
married  in.     It's  the  worst  luck  in  the  world,  in 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  249 

anything  but  white.  I  knew  one  Bet  Stubbs,  of 
our  town,  that  was  married  in  red  ;  and,  as  sure 
as  eggs  is  eggs,  the  bridegroom  and  she  had  a  miff 
before  morning. 

Olivia.  No  matter.  I'm  all  impatience  till  we 
are  out  of  the  house. 

Gar.  Bless  me,  madam,  I  had  almost  forgot 
the  wedding-ring  ! — The  sweet  little  thing— I  don't 
think  it  would  go  on  my  little  finger.  And  what 
if  I  put  in  a  gentleman's  night-cap,  in  case  of 
necessity,  madam  ?    But  here's  Jarvis. 

Enter  Jarvis. 
Olivia.  O,  Jarvis,  are  you  come  at  last?    We 
have   been  ready  this  half  hour.     Now  let's  be 
going.     Let  us  fly  ! 

Jarvis.  Aye,  to  Jericho  !  for  we  shall  have  no 
going  to  Scotland  this  bout,  I  fancy. 
Olivia.  How!  What's  the  matter? 
Jarvis.  Money,  money,  is  the  matter,  madam. 
We  have  got  no  money.  What  the  plague  do  you 
send  me  of  your  fool's  errand  for  ?  My  master's 
bill  upon  the  city  is  not  worth  a  rush.  Here  it  is ; 
Mrs.  Garnet  may  pin  up  her  hair  with  it. 

Olivia.  Undone  !  How  could  Honeywood  serve 
us  so  !  What  shall  we  do  ?  Can't  we  go  without  it? 
Jarvis.  Go  to  Scotland  without  money  !  To 
Scotland  without  money  !  Lord  how  some  people 
understand  geography  !  We  might  as  well  set 
sail  for  Patagonia  upon  a  cork  jacket. 

Olivia.  Such  a  disappointment  !  What  a  base 
insincere  man  was  your  master,  to  serve  us  in  this 
manner.     Is  this  his  good  nature  ? 


25°  FLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Jarvis.  Nay,  don't  talk  illof  my  master,  madam.  I 
won't  bear  to  hear  anybody  talk  ill  of  him  but  myself. 

Gar.  Bless  us  !  now  I  think  on't,  madam,  you 
need  not  be  under  any  uneasiness  :  I  saw  Mr.  Leon- 
tine  receive  forty  guineas  from  his  father  just 
before  he  set  out,  and  he  can't  yet  have  left  the  inn. 
A  short  letter  will  reach  him  there. 

Olivia.  Well  remembered,  Garnet ;  I'll  write 
immediately.  How's  this  !  Bless  me,  my  hand 
trembles  so,  I  can't  write  a  word.  Do  you  write, 
Garnet ;  and,  upon  second  thought,  it  will  be 
better  from  you. 

Gar.  Truly,  madam,  I  write  and  indite  but 
poorly.  I  never  was  kute  in  my  laming.  But  I'll 
do  what  I  can  to  please  you.  Let  me  sec.  All 
out  of  my  own  head,  I  suppose  ? 

Olivia.  Whatever  you  please. 

Gar.  {Writing.)  Muster  Croaker — Twenty 
guineas,  madam  ? 

Olivia.  Ay,  twenty  will  do. 

Gar.  At  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  till  called  for. 
Expedition — will  be  blown  up — all  of  a  flame — ■ 
Quick,  dispatch — Cupid,  the  little  God  of  Love — 
I  conclude  it,  madam,  with  Cupid ;  I  love  to  see  a 
love-letter  end  like  poetry.1 

Olivia.  Well,  well,  what  you  please,  anything. 
But  how  shall  we  send  it  ?  I  can  trust  none  of  the 
servants  of  this  family. 

Gar.  Odso,  madam,  Mr.  Honey  wood's  butler 
is  in  the  next  room  ;  he's  a  dear,  sweet  man  ;  he'll 
do  anything  for  me. 

[l  Sam  Wellcr's  opinion.  Cf.  Fickwkk  Fa/crs,  d}. 
xxxiii.J 


THE  GOOD-NAT UR'D  MAN.  25X 

Jarvis.  He  !  the  dog,  he'll  certainly  commit 
some  blunder.  He's  drunk  and  sober  ten  times  a 
day  ! 

Olivia.  No  matter.  Fly,  Garnet ;  anybody  we 
can  trust  will  do.  [Exit  Garnet.]  Well,  Jarvis, 
now  we  can  have  nothing  more  to  interrupt  us. 
You  may  take  up  the  things,  and  carry  them  on  to 
the  inn.     Have  you  no  hands,  Jarvis  ? 

Jarvis.  Soft  and  fair,  young  lady.  You,  that  are 
going  to  be  married,  think  things  can  never  be 
done  too  fast  :  but  we  that  are  old,  and  know  what 
we  are  about,  must  elope  methodically,  madam. 

Olivia.  Well,  sure,  if  my  indiscretions  were  to 

be  done  over  again 

Jarvis.  My  life  for  it  you  would  do  them  ten 
times  over. 

Olivia.  Why  will  you  talk  so?    If  you  knew 

how  unhappy  they  make  me 

Jarvis.  Very  unhappy,  no  doubt  :  I  was  once 
just  as  unhappy  when  I  was  going  to  be  married 
myself.     I'll  tell  you  a  story  about  that 

Olivia.   A  story  !  when  I'm  all  impatience  to  be 

away.    Was  there  ever  such  a  dilatory  creature  ! 

Jarvis.  Well,  madam,  if  we  must  march,  why 
we  will  march  ;  that's  all.  Though,  odds  bobs 
we  have  still  forgot  one  thing  we  should  never 
travel  without — a  case  of  good  razors,  and  a  box  of 
shaving-powder.  But  no  matter,  I  believe  we 
shall  be  pretty  well  shaved  by  the  way.       [Goi/i:;: 

Enter  GARNET. 
Garnet.   Undone,   undone,    madam !     Ah,   Mr. 
Jarvis,  you  said  right  enough.     As  sure  as  death 


252  PLAYS   OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Mr.  Honeywood's  rogue  of  a  drunken  butler 
dropped  the  letter  before  he  went  ten  yards  from 
the  door.  There's  old  Croaker  has  just  picked  it 
up,  and  is  this  moment  reading  it  to  himself  in  the 
hall! 

Olivia.   Unfortunate  !    We  shall  be  discovered  ! 

Gar.  No,  madam  ;  don't  be  uneasy,  he  can 
make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  it.  To  be  sure  he 
looks  as  if  he  was  broke  loose  from  Bedlam  about 
it,  but  he  can't  find  what  it  means  for  all  that.  O 
Lud,  he  is  coming  this  way  all  in  the  horrors  ! 

Olivia.  Then  let  us  leave  the  house  this  instant, 
for  fear  he  should  ask  further  questions.  In  the 
mean  time,  Garnet,  do  you  write  and  send  off  just 
such  another.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Croaker. 

Croaker.  Death  and  destruction  !  Are  all  the 
horrors  of  air,  fire  and  water  to  be  levelled  only  at 
me  !  Am  I  only  to  be  singled  out  for  gunpowder- 
plots,  combustibles,  and  conflagration  !  Here  it  is 
— An  incendiary  letter  dropped  at  my  door.  To 
Cluster  Croaker,  these,  with  speed.  Ay,  ay,  plain 
enough  the  direction  :  all  in  the  genuine  incen- 
diary spelling,  and  as  cramp  as  the  devil.  With 
speed.  O,  confound  your  speed.  But  let  me  read 
it  once  more.    {Reads.) 

Mnstar  Croakar  as  sone  as  yoew  see  this  leve 
tzuenty  giuines  at  the  bar  of  the  Talboot  tell  caledfor 
or  yozve  and yower  expcretion  zuill  be  al  blown  up  I 
All,  but  too  plain  !  Blood  and  gunpowder  in  every 
line  of  it.  Blown  up  !  murderous  dog  !  All  blown 
up  !    Heavens  !  what  have  I  and  my  poor  family 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  253 

done,  to  be  all  blown  up  ?  (Reads.)  Our  pockets 
are  low,  and  money  we  must  have.  Ay,  there's  the 
reason  ;  they'll  blow  us  up,  because  they  have  got 
low  pockets.  (Reads.)  It  is  but  a  short  time  you 
have  to  consider ;  for  if  this  takes  wind,  the  house 
will  quickly  be  all  of  aflame.  Inhuman  monsters  ! 
blow  us  up,  and  then  burn  us.  The  earthquake  at 
Lisbon  was  but  a  bonfire  to  it!  (Reads.)  Make 
quick  dispatch,  and  so  no  more  at  present.  But 
may  Cupid,  the  little  God  of  Love,  go  with  you 
wherever  you  go.  The  little  God  of  Love  !  Cupid, 
the  little  God  of  Love  go  with  me  !  Go  you  to  the 
devil,  you  and  your  little  Cupid  together  ;  I'm  so 
frightened,  I  scarce  know  whether  I  sit,  stand,  or 
go.  Perhaps  this  moment  I'm  treading  on  lighted 
matches,  blazing  brimstone  and  barrels  of  gun- 
powder. They  are  preparing  to  blow  me  up  into 
the  clouds.  Murder  !  We  shall  be  all  burnt  in 
our  beds  ;  we  shall  be  all  burnt  in  our  beds.' 

Enter  Miss  Richland. 

Miss  Rich.  Lord,  sir,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Croaker.  Murder's  the  matter.  We  shall  be  all 
blown  up  in  our  beds  before  morning  ! 

Miss  Rich.  I  hope  not,  sir. 

Croaker.  What  signifies  what  you  hope,  madam, 
when  I  have  a  certificate  of  it  here  in  my  hand? 
Will  nothing  alarm  my  family  ?  Sleeping  and 
eating,  sleeping  and  eating  is  the  only  work  from 
morning  till  night  in  my  house.     My  insensible 

t1  Shuter's  reading  of  this  letter  is  said  to  have  decided  the 
success  of  the  play.] 


254  PLATS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

crew  could  sleep,  though  rocked  by  an  earthquake, 
and  fry  beef  steaks  at  a  volcano ! 

Miss  Rich.  But,  sir,  you  have  alarmed  them  so 
often  already,  we  have  nothing  but  earthquakes, 
famines,  plagues,  and  mad  dogs  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end.  You  remember,  sir,  it  is  not  above  a 
month  ago,  that  you  assured  us  of  a  conspiracy 
among  the  bakers,  to  poison  us  in  our  bread  ;  and 
so  kept  the  whole  family  a  week  upon  potatoes. 

Croaker.  And  potatoes  were  too  good  for  them. 
But  why  do  I  stand  talking  here  with  a  girl,  when  I 
should  be  facing  the  enemy  without  ?  Here,  John, 
Nicodemus,  search  the  house.  Look  into  the 
cellars,  to  see  if  there  be  any  combustibles  below  ; 
and  above,  in  the  apartments,  that  no  matches  be 
thrown  in  at  the  windows.  Let  all  the  fires  be  put 
out,  and  let  the  engine  be  drawn  out  in  the  yard, 
to  play  upon  the  house  in  case  of  necessity.  [Exit. 

Miss  Richland  alone. 
Miss  Rich.  What  can  he  mean  by  all  this?  Yet, 
why  should  I  enquire,  when  he  alarms  us  in  this 
manner  almost  every  day  ?  But  Honeywood  has 
desired  an  interview  with  me  in  private.  What 
can  he  mean  ;  or,  rather,  what  means  this  palpita- 
tion at  his  approach?  It  is  the  first  time  he  ever 
shewed  anything  in  his  conduct  that  seemed  par- 
ticular.    Sure  he  cannot  mean  to  but  he's 

here. 

Enter  Honeywood. 
Honeyw.   I  presumed  to  solicit  this   interview, 
madam,  before  I  left  town,  to  be  permitted — 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D   MAN.  255 

Miss  Rich.   Indeed!    Leaving  town,  sir  ? — ■ 

Jloneyw.  Yes,  madam  ;  perhaps  the  kingdom. 
I  have  presumed,  I  say,  to  desire  the  favour  of 
this  interview — in  order  to  disclose  something 
which  our  long  friendship  prompts.  And  yet  my 
fears — 

Miss  Rich.  His  fears  !  What  are  his  fears  to 
mine?  {Aside.) — We  have  indeed  been  long  ac- 
quainted, sir ;  very  long.  If  I  remember,  our 
first  meeting  was  at  the  French  Ambassador's. — 
Do  you  recollect  how  you  were  pleased  to  rally 
me  upon  my  complexion  there? 

Honeynv.  Perfectly,  madam  ;  I  presumed  to  re- 
prove you  for  painting :  but  your  warmer  blushes 
soon  convinced  the  company  that  the  colouring 
was  all  from  nature. 

Miss  Rich.  And  yet  you  only  meant  it,  in  your 
good-natur'd  way,  to  make  me  pay  a  compliment 
to  myself.  In  the  same  manner  you  danced  that 
night  with  the  most  awkward  woman  in  company, 
because  you  saw  nobody  else  would  take  her  out. 

Honeytv.  Yes ;  and  was  rewarded  the  next 
night,  by  dancing  with  the  finest  woman  in  com- 
pany, whom  everybody  wished  to  take  out. 

Miss  Rich.  Well,  sir,  if  you  thought  so  then,  I 
fear  your  judgment  has  since  corrected  the  errors 
of  a  first  impression.  We  generally  show  to  most 
advantage  at  first.  Our  sex  are  like  poor  trades- 
men, that  put  all  their  best  goods  to  be  seen  at 
the  windows. 

Honeyw.  The  first  impression,  madam,  did  in- 
deed deceive  me.  I  expected  to  find  a  woman 
with  all  the  faults  of  conscious  flattered    beauty. 


256  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

I  expected  to  find  her  vain  and  insolent.  But 
every  day  has  since  taught  me  that  it  is  possible 
to  possess  sense  without  pride,  and  beauty  without 
affectation. 

Miss  Rich.  This,  sir,  is  a  style  unusual  with 
Mr.  Honeywood  ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
why  he  thus  attempts  to  increase  that  vanity, 
which  his  own  lessons  have  taught  me  to  despise. 

Honeyw.  I  ask  pardon,  madam.  Yet,  from 
our  long  friendship,  I  presumed  I  might  have 
some  right  to  offer,  without  offence,  what  you 
may  refuse  without  offending. 

Miss  Rich.  Sir  !  I  beg  you'd  reflect ;  though, 
I  fear,  I  shall  scarce  have  any  power  to  refuse  a 
request  of  yours ;  yet,  you  may  be  precipitate  : 
consider,  sir. 

Honeyw.  I  own  my  rashness ;  but,  as  I  plead 
the  cause  of  friendship,  of  one  who  loves — Don't 
be  alarmed,  madam — Who  loves  you  with  the 
most  ardent  passion  ;  whose  whole  happiness  is 
placed  in  you — 

Miss  Rich.  I  fear,  sir,  I  shall  never  find  whom 
you  mean,  by  this  description  of  him. 

Honeyw.  Ah,  madam,  it  but  too  plainly  points 
him  out ;  though  he  should  be  too  humble  himself 
to  urge  his  pretensions,  or  you  too  modest  to 
understand  them. 

Miss  Rich.  Well ;  it  would  be  affectation  any 
longer  to  pretend  ignorance  ;  and,  I  will  own,  sir, 
T  have  long  been  prejudiced  in  his  favour.  It 
was  but  natural  to  wish  to  make  his  heart  mine, 
as  he  seemed  himself  ignorant  of  its  value. 

Honeyw.   I  see  she  always  loved  him  !  (Aside). — 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  257 

I  find,  madam,  you're  already  sensible  of  his 
worth,  his  passion.  How  happy  is  my  friend,  to 
be  the  favourite  of  one  with  such  sense  to  distin- 
guish merit,  and  such  beauty  to  reward  it  ! 

Miss  Rich.  Your  friend  !  sir.     "What  friend  ? 

Honeyw.  My  best  friend — My  friend  Mr.  Lofty, 
madam. 

Miss  Rich.   He,  sir  ! 

Honeyw.  Yes,  he,  madam  !  He  is,  indeed,  what 
your  warmest  wishes  might  have  formed  him. 
And  to  his  other  qualities,  he  adds  that  of  the 
most  passionate  regard  for  you. 

Miss  Rich.  Amazement ! — No  more  of  this,  I 
beg  you,  sir. 

Honeyw.  I  see  your  confusion,  madam,  and 
know  how  to  interpret  it.  And  since  I  so  plainly 
read  the  language  of  your  heart,  shall  I  make  my 
friend  happy,  by  communicating  your  sentiments? 

Miss  Rich.  By  no  means. 

Honeyw.  Excuse  me ;  I  must ;  I  know  you 
desire  it. 

Miss  Rich.  Mr.  Honeywood,  let  me  tell  you, 
that  you  wrong  my  sentiments  and  yourself. 
When  I  first  applied  to  your  friendship,  I  ex- 
pected advice  and  assistance ;  but  now,  sir,  I  see 
that  it  is  vain  to  expect  happiness  from  him,  who 
has  been  so  bad  an  economist  of  his  own ;  and 
that  I  must  disclaim  his  friendship,  who  ceases  to 
be  a  friend  to  himself.  [Exit. 

Honeyw.  How  is  this  !  she  has  confessed  she 
loved  him,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  part  in  dis- 
pleasure. Can  I  have  done  anything  to  reproach 
myself  with  ?    No ;  I  believe  not ;  yet,  after  all, 

s 


=58  PLAYS  OF  COLDS RUTH. 

these  things  should  not  be  done  by  a  third  person; 
I  should  have  spared  her  confusion.  My  friend- 
ship carried  me  a  little  too  far. 

Enter  Croaker,  with  the  Letter  in  his  Hand, 
and  Mrs.  Croaker. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  And  so,  my  dear, 
it's  your  supreme  wish  that  I  should  be  quite 
wretched  upon  this  occasion  ?    Ha,  ha. 

Croaker.  {Mimicking)  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  and  so,  my 
dear,  it's  your  supreme  pleasure  to  give  me  no 
better  consolation  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Positively,  my  dear,  what  is  this 
incendiary  stuff  and  trumpery  to  me  ?  Our  house 
may  travel  through  the  air  like  the  house  of 
Loretto,1  for  ought  I  care,  if  I'm  to  be  miserable 
in  it. 

Croaker.  Would  to  Heaven  it  were  converted 
into  a  house  of  correction  for  your  benefit.  Have 
we  not  everything  to  alarm  us?  Perhaps,  this 
very  moment,  the  tragedy  is  beginning. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Then  let  us  reserve  our  distress 
till  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  or  give  them  the 
money  they  want,  and  have  done  with  them. 

Croaker.  Give  them  my  money  ! — And  pray, 
what  right  have  they  to  my  money  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  pray,  what  right  then  have 
you  to  my  good  humour  ? 

Croaker.  And  so  your  good  humour  advises  me 
to  part  with  my  money  ?    Why,  then,  to  tell  your 

[!  The  Santa  Casa,  or  House  of  the  Virgin,  is  said  to  have 
been  miraculously  transported  into  various  towns  until  it 
settled  finally  at  Loretto.] 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  25g 

good  humour  a  piece  of  my  mind,  I'd  sooner  part 
with  my  wife  !  Here's  Mr.  Honeywood,  see  what 
he'll  say  to  it.  My  dear  Honeywood,  look  at  this 
incendiary  letter  dropped  at  my  door.  It  will 
freeze  you  with  terror ;  and  yet  lovey  here  can 
read  it — can  read  it,  and  laugh  ! 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Yes,  and  so  will  Mr.  Honey- 
wood. 

Croaker.  If  he  does,  I'll  suffer  to  be  hanged  the 
next  minute  in  the  rogue's  place,  that's  all  ! 

Airs.  Croaker.  Speak,  Mr.  Honeywood  !  is 
there  anything  more  foolish  than  my  husband's 
fright  upon  this  occasion  ? 

Ho7ieyw.  It  would  not  become  me  to  decide, 
madam ;  but  doubtless,  the  greatness  of  his  terrors 
now,  will  but  invite  them  to  renew  their  villainy 
another  time. 

Mrs.  Croaker.   I  told  you,  he'd  be  of  my  opinion. 

Croaker.  How,  sir !  do  you  maintain  that  I 
should  lie  down  under  such  an  injury,  and  show, 
neither  by  my  tears,  or  complaints,  that  I  have 
something  of  the  spirit  of  a  man  in  me? 

Honeytv.  Pardon  me,  sir.  You  ought  to  make 
the  loudest  complaints,  if  you  desire  redress.  The 
surest  way  to  have  redress,  is  to  be  earnest  in  the 
pursuit  of  it. 

Croaker.  Ay,  whose  opinion  is  he  of  now  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  don't  you  think  that  laughing 
off  our  fears  is  the  best  way? 

Iloneynv.  What  is  the  best,  madam,  few  can 
say  ;  but  I'll  maintain  it  to  be  a  very  wise  way. 

Croaker.  Rut  we're  talking  of  the  best.  Surely 
the  best  way  is  to  face  the  enemy  in  the  field,  and 


260  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

not   wait  till  he   plunders   us   in   our   very  bed 
chamber. 

Honeyw.  Why,  sir,  as  to  the  best,  that — that's 
a  very  wise  way  too. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  can  anything  be  more  absurd, 
than  to  double  our  distresses  by  our  apprehensions, 
and  put  it  in  the  power  of  every  low  fellow,  that 
can  scrawl  ten  words  of  wretched  spelling,  to 
torment  us  ? 

Honeyw.  Without  doubt,  nothing  more  absurd. 

Croaker.  How  !  would  it  not  be  more  absurd 
to  despise  the  rattle  till  we  are  bit  by  the  snake  ? 

Honeyw.  Without  doubt,  perfectly  absurd. 

Croaker.  Then  you  are  of  my  opinion? 

Honeyw.  Entirely. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  you  reject  mine  ? 

Honeyw.  Heaven  forbid,  madam.  No,  sure, 
no  reasoning  can  be  more  just  than  yours.  We 
ought  certainly  to  despise  malice  if  we  cannot 
oppose  it,  and  not  make  the  incendiary's  pen  as 
fatal  to  our  repose  as  the  highwayman's  pistol. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  O  !  then  you  think  I'm  quite 
right  ? 

Honeyw.  Perfectly  right  ! 

Croaker.  A  plague  of  plagues,  we  can't  be  both 
right.  I  ought  to  be  sorry,  or  I  ought  to  be  glad. 
My  hat  must  be  on  my  head,  or  my  hat  must  be 
off. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Certainly,  in  two  opposite 
opinions,  if  one  be  perfectly  reasonable,  the  other 
can't  be  perfectly  right. 

Honeyw.  And  why  may  not  both  be  right, 
madam?  Mr.  Croaker  in  earnestly  seeking  redress, 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  261 

and  you  in  waiting  the  event  with  good  humour  ? 
Pray  let  me  see  the  letter  again.  I  have  it.  This 
letter  requires  twenty  guineas  to  be  left  at  the  bar 
of  the  Talbot  inn.  If  it  be  indeed  an  incendiary 
letter,  what  if  you  and  I,  sir,  go  there  ;  and,  when 
the  writer  comes  to  be  paid  his  expected  booty, 
seize  him? 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  it's  the  very  thing  ;  the 
very  thing.  While  I  walk  by  the  door,  you  shall 
plant  yourself  in  ambush  near  the  bar ;  burst  out 
upon  the  miscreant  like  a  masked  battery ;  ex- 
tort a  confession  at  once,  and  so  hang  him  up  by 
surprise. 

Honeyw.  Yes ;  but  I  would  not  choose  to  ex- 
ercise too  much  severity.  It  is  my  maxim,  sir, 
that  crimes  generally  punish  themselves. 

Croaker.  Well,  but  we  may  upbraid  him  a  little, 
I  suppose  ?  {Ironically. ) 

Honeyw.  Ay,  but  not  punish  him  too  rigidly. 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  leave  that  to  my  own 
benevolence. 

Honeyw.  Well,  I  do  :  but  remember  that  uni- 
versal benevolence  is  the  first  law  of  nature. 

[Exeunt  Honeywood  and  Mrs.  Croak kr. 

Croaker.  Yes ;  and  my  universal  benevolence 
will  hang  the  dog,  if  he  had  as  many  necks  as  a 
hydra ! 

END   OF  THE   FOURTH   ACT. 


262  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH 


ACT   THE    FIFTH. 

Scene. — An  Inn. 

Enter  Olivia,  Jarvis. 
Olivia. 
jlELL,  we  have  got  safe  to  the  inn,  how- 
ever.     Now,    if  the   post-chaise  were 
ready — 
Jarvis.  The  horses  are  just  finishing 
their   oats ;    and,    as   they  are   not  going  to   be 
married,  they  choose  to  take  their  own  time. 

Olivia.  You  are  for  ever  giving  wrong  motives 
to  my  impatience. 

Jarvis.  Be  as  impatient  as  you  will,  the  horses 
must   take   their   own   time  ;  besides,    you  don't 
consider,  we  have  got  no  answer  from  our  fellow- 
traveller  yet.     If  we  hear  nothing  from  Mr.  Leon- 
tine,  we  have  only  one  way  left  us. 
Olivia.  What  way? 
Jarvis.  The  way  home  again. 
Olivia.  Not  so.     I  have  made  a  resolution  to 
go,  and  nothing  shall  induce  me  to  break  it. 

Jarvis.  Ay  ;  resolutions  are  well  kept  when 
they  jump  with  inclination.  However,  I'll  go 
hasten  things  without.  And  I'll  call  too  at  the 
bar  to  see  if  anything  should  be  left  for  us  there. 


THE  GOOn-NATUR'D  MAN.  263 

Don't  be  in  such  a  plaguy  hurry,  madam,  and  we 
shall  go  the  faster,  I  promise  you.    {Exit  Jarvis. 


Enter  Landlady. 

Landlady.  What !  Solomon ;  why  don't  you 
move?  Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Lamb  there. — 
Will  nobody  answer?  To  the  Dolphin;  quick. 
The  Angel  has  been  outrageous  this  half  hour. 
Did  your  ladyship  call,  madam  ? 

Olivia.  No,  madam. 

Landlady.  I  find,  as  you're  for  Scotland,  madam 
— But,  that's  no  business  of  mine  ;  married,  or 
not  married,  I  ask  no  questions.  To  be  sure,  we 
had  a  sweet  little  couple  set  off  from  this  two  days 
ago  for  the  same  place.  The  gentleman,  for  a 
tailor,  was,  to  be  sure,  as  fine  a  spoken  tailor,  as 
ever  blew  froth  from  a  full  pot.  And  the  young 
lady  so  bashful,  it  was  near  half  an  hour  before  we 
could  get  her  to  finish  a  pint  of  raspberry  between 
us. 

Olivia.  But  this  gentleman  and  I  are  not  going 
to  be  married,  I  assure  you. 

Landlady.  May  be  not.  That's  no  business  of 
mine ;  for  certain,  Scotch  marriages  seldom  turn 
out.  There  was,  of  my  own  knowledge,  Miss 
Macfag,  that  married  her  father's  footman.— 
Alack-a-day,  she  and  her  husband  soon  parted, 
and  now  keep  separate  cellars  in  Hedge 
Lane.1 

[l  CJ.  Goldsmith  s  essay  entitled  A  Register  of  Scotch 
Marriages,  in  the  Westminster  Magazine,  February, 
1773.] 


264  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Olivia,   {aside.)  A  very  pretty  picture  of  what 
lies  before  me. 


Enter  Leontine. 

Leont.  My  dear  Olivia,  my  anxiety  till  you  were 
out  of  clanger,  was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  I 
could  not  help  coining  to  see  you  set  out,  though 
it  exposes  us  to  a  discovery. 

Olivia.  May  everything  you  do  prove  as  for- 
tunate. Indeed,  Leontine,  we  have  been  most 
cruelly  disappointed.  Mr.  Honeyvvood's  bill  upon 
the  city,  has,  it  seems,  been  protested,  and  we 
have  been  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed. 

Leont.  How  !  An  offer  of  his  own  too.  Sure, 
he  could  not  mean  to  deceive  us. 

Olivia.  Depend  upon  his  sincerity ;  he  only 
mistook  the  desire  for  the  power  of  serving  us. 
But  let  us  think  no  more  of  it.  I  believe  the  post- 
chaise  is  ready  by  this. 

Landlady.  Not  quite  yet :  and,  begging  your 
ladyship's  pardon,  I  don't  think  your  ladyship 
quite  ready  for  the  post-chaise.  The  north  road 
is  a  cold  place,  madam.  I  have  a  drop  in  the 
house  of  as  pretty  raspberry  as  ever  was  tipt  over 
tongue.  Just  a  thimbleful  to  keep  the  wind  off 
your  stomach.  To  be  sure,  the  last  couple  we 
had  here,  they  said  it  was  a  perfect  nosegay. 
Ecod,  I  sent  them  both  away  as  good-natur'd — 
Up  went  the  blinds,  round  went  the  wheels,  and 
drive  away  post-boy,  was  the  word. 

Enter  Croaker. 
Croaker.  Well,  while  my  friend  Iloncywood  is 


THE  GOOD-NAT UR' D  MAN.  265 

upon  the  post  of  danger  at  the  bar,  it  must  be  my 
business  to  have  an  eye  about  "me  here.  I  think  I 
know  an  incendiary's  look ;  for,  wherever  the 
devil  makes  a  purchase,  he  never  fails  to  set  his 
mark.  Ha!  who  have  we  here?  My  son  and 
daughter  !     What  can  they  be  doing  here? 

Landlady.  I  tell  you,  madam,  it  will  do  you 
good  ;  I  think  I  know  by  this  time  what's  good 
for  the  north  road.  It's  a  raw  night,  madam — 
sir— 

Leont.  Not  a  drop  more,  good  madam.  I 
should  now  take  it  as  a  greater  favour,  if  you 
hasten  the  horses,  for  I  am  afraid  to  be  seen 
myself. 

Landlady.  That  shall  be  done.  Wha,  Solomon  ! 
are  you  all  dead  there  ?    Wha,  Solomon,  I  say. 

[Exit  bazvling. 

Olivia.  Well ;  I  dread  lest  an  expedition  begun 
in  fear  should  end  in  repentance. — Every  moment 
we  stay  increases  our  danger,  and  adds  to  my 
apprehensions. 

Leont.  There's  no  danger,  trust  me,  my  dear  ; 
there  can  be  none  :  if  Honeywood  has  acted  with 
honour,  and  kept  my  father,  as  he  promised,  in 
employment,  till  we  are  out  of  danger,  nothing  can 
interrupt  our  journey. 

Olivia.  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mr.  Honeywood's 
sincerity,  and  even  his  desires  to  serve  us.  My 
fears  are  from  your  father's  suspicions.  A  mind 
so  disposed  to  be  alarmed  without  a  caiue,  will  be 
but  too  ready  when  there's  a  reason. 

Leont.  Why,  let  him,  when  we  are  out  of  his 
power.     But,    believe  me,  Olivia,    you   have    no 


^66  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

great  reason  to  dread  his  resentment.  His  re- 
pining temper,  as  it  does  no  manner  of  injury  to 
himself,  so  will  it  never  do  harm  to  others.  He 
only  frets  to  keep  himself  employed,  and  scolds 
for  his  private  amusement. 

Olivia.  I  don't  know  that ;  but,  I'm  sure,  on 
some  occasions,  it  makes  him  look  most  shockingly. 

Croaker.  (Discovering  himself.)  How  does  he 
look  now  ? — How  does  he  look  now  ? 

Olivia.  Ah  ! 

Leont.  Undone  ! 

Croaker.  How  do  I  look  now?  Sir,  I  am  your 
very  humble  servant.  Madam,  I  am  yours.  What, 
you  are  going  off,  are  you  ?  Then,  first,  if  you 
please,  take  a  word  or  two  from  me  with  you 
before  you  go.  Tell  me  first  where  you  are  going, 
and  when  you  have  told  me  that,  perhaps  I  shall 
know  as  little  as  I  did  before. 

Leont.  If  that  be  so,  our  answer  might  but 
increase  your  displeasure,  without  adding  to  your 
information. 

Croaker.  I  want  no  information  from  you, 
puppy  ;  and  you,  too,  good  madam,  what  answer 
have  you  got  ?  Eh!  (A  cry  without,  stop  him.)  I 
think  I  heard  a  noise.  My  friend,  Honeywood, 
without — has  he  seized  the  incendiary?  Ah,  no, 
for  now  I  hear  no  more  on't. 

Leont.  Honeywood,  without !  Then,  sir,  it  was 
Mr.  Honeywood  that  directed  you  hither. 

Croaker.  No,  sir,  it  was  Mr.  Honeywood  con- 
ducted me  hither. 

Leont.   Is  it  possible  ? 

Croaker.  Possible  !     Why,   he's   in   the   house 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  267 

now,  sir.     More  anxious  about  me,  than  my  own 
son,  sir. 

Leont.  Then,  sir,  he's  a  villain! 

Croaker.  How,  sirrah !  a  villain,  because  he 
takes  most  care  of  your  father  ?  I'll  not  bear  it. 
I  tell  you  I'll  not  bear  it.  Honey  wood  is  a  friend 
to  the  family,  and  I'll  have  him  treated  as  such. 

Leont.  I  shall  study  to  repay  his  friendship  as  it 
deserves. 

Croaker.  Ah,  rogue,  if  you  knew  how  earnestly 
he  entered  into  my  griefs,  and  pointed  out  the  means 
to  detect  them,  you  would  love  him  as  I  do.  (A 
cry  without,  stop  him. )  Fire  and  fury  !  they  have 
seized  the  incendiary  :  they  have  the  villain,  the 
incendiary  in  view.  Stop  him,  stop  an  incendiary, 
a  murderer  ;  stop  him  !  [Exit. 

Olivia.  Oh,  my  terrors  !  What  can  this  new 
tumult  mean  ? 

Leont.  Some  new  mark,  I  suppose,  of  Mr. 
Honeywood's  sincerity.  But  we  shall  have  satis- 
faction :  he  shall  give  me  instant  satisfaction. 

Olivia.  It  must  not  be,  my  Leontine,  if  you 
value  my  esteem,  or  my  happiness.  Whatever  be 
our  fate,  let  us  not  add  guilt  to  our  misfortunes — 
Consider  that  our  innocence  will  shortly  be  all  we 
have  left  us.     You  must  forgive  him. 

Leont.  Forgive  him  !  Has  he  not  in  every  in- 
stance betrayed  us  ?  Forced  me  to  borrow  money 
from  him,  which  appears  a  mere  trick  to  delay  us: 
promised  to  keep  my  father  engaged  till  we  were 
out  of  danger,  and  here  brought  him  to  the  very 
scene  of  our  escape  ? 

Olivia.  Don't  be  precipitate.  We  may  yet  Le 
mistaken. 


268  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Enter  Postboy,  dragging  in  Jarvis  :  Honey- 
wood  entering  soon  after. 

Postboy.  Ay,  master,  we  have  him  fast  enough. 
Here  is  the  incendiary  dog.  I'm  entitled  to  the 
reward  ;  I'll  take  my  oath  I  saw  him  ask  for  the 
money  at  the  bar,  and  then  run  for  it. 

Honeyw.  Come,  bring  him  along.  Let  us  see 
him.  Let  him  learn  to  blush  for  his  crimes. 
{Discovering  his  mistake.)  Death!  what's  here! 
Jarvis,  Leontine,  Olivia !  What  can  all  this 
mean  ? 

Jarvis.  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means  :  that 
I  was  an  old  fool,  and  that  you  are  my  master — 
that's  all. 

Honeyw.  Confusion  ! 

Leont.  Yes,  sir,  I  find  you  have  kept  your  word 
with  me.  After  such  baseness,  I  wonder  how  you 
can  venture  to  see  the  man  you  have  injured. 

Honeyw.  My  dear  Leontine,  by  my  life,  my 
honour — 

Leont.  Peace,  peace,  for  shame ;  and  do  not 
continue  to  aggravate  baseness  by  hypocrisy.  I 
know  you,  sir,  I  know  you. 

Honeyw.  Why,  won't  you  hear  me  !  By  all 
that's  just,  I  knew  not — ■ 

Leont.  Hear  you,  sir  !  to  what  purpose  ?  I  now 
see  through  all  your  low  arts  ;  your  ever  complying 
with  every  opinion ;  your  never  refusing  any  re- 
quest ;  your  friendship  as  common  as  a  prostitute's 
favours,  and  as  fallacious  ;  all  these,  sir,  have  long 
been  contemptible  to  the  world,  and  are  now 
perfectly  so  to  me. 


THE  GOOD-NAT  UR'D  MAN.  269 

Honeyw.  (aside.)  Ha!  contemptible  to  the 
world  !  That  reaches  me. 

Leont.  All  the  seeming  sincerity  of  your  pro- 
fessions I  now  find  were  only  allurements  to  betray ; 
and  all  your  seeming  regret  for  their  consequences, 
only  calculated  to  cover  the  cowardice  of  your 
heart.     Draw,  villain  ! 

Enter  Croaker  out  of  Breath. 

Croaker.  Where  is  the  villain?  Where  is  the 
incendiary?  (Seizing  the  post-boy.)  Hold  him 
fast,  the  dog ;  he  has  the  gallows  in  his  face. 
Come,  you  dog,  confess ;  confess  all,  and  hang 
yourself. 

Post-Boy.  Zounds  !  master,  what  do  you  throttle 
me  for  ? 

Croaker.  (Beating  him.)  Dog,  do  you  resist ; 
do  you  resist? 

Post-Boy.  Zounds  !  master,  I'm  not  he  ;  there's 
the  man  that  we  thought  was  the  rogue,  and  turns 
out  to  be  one  of  the  company. 

Croaker.  How  ! 

Honeyiv.  Mr.  Croaker,  we  have  all  been  under 
a  strange  mistake  here ;  I  find  there  is  nobody 
guilty ;  it  was  all  an  error ;  entirely  an  error  of 
our  own. 

Croaker.  And  I  say,  sir,  that  you're  in  an  error  : 
for  there's  guilt  and  double  guilt,  a  plot,  a  damn'd 
Jesuitical  pestilential  plot,  and  I  must  have  proof 
of  it. 

Honeyw.  Do  but  hear  me. 

Croaker.  What,  you  intend  to  bring  'em  off,  I 
suppose  ;  I'll  hear  nothing. 


=7°  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Honeyw.  Madam,  you  seem  at  least  calm  enougn 
to  hear  reason. 

Olivia.  Excuse  me. 

Honeyw.  Good  Jarvis,  let  me  then  explain  it  to 
you. 

Jai~vis.  What  signifies  explanation,  when  the 
thing  is  done  ? 

Honeyw.  Will  nobody  hear  me  ?  Was  there  ever 
such  a  set,  so  blinded  by  passion  and  prejudice  ! 
{To  the  Post- Boy.)  My  good  friend,  I  believe 
you'll  be  surprised  when  I  assure  you — 

Post-Boy.  Sure  me  nothing — I'm  sure  of  nothing 
but  a  good  beating. 

Croaker.  Come  then,  you,  madam,  if  you  ever 
hope  for  any  favour  or  forgiveness,  tell  me  sincerely 
all  you  know  of  this  affair. 

Olivia.  Unhappily,  sir,  I'm  but  too  much  the 
cause  of  your  suspicions  :  you  see  before  you,  sir, 
one  that  with  false  pretences  has  stept  into  your 
family  to  betray  it :  not  your  daughter — 

Croaker.  Not  my  daughter  ! 

Olivia.  Not  your  daughter — but  a  mean  deceiver 
—who — support  me,  I  cannot — 

Honeyw.   Help,  she's  going,  give  her  air. 

Croaker.  Ay,  ay,  take  the  young  woman  to  the 
air ;  I  would  not  hurt  a  hair  of  her  head,  whose 
ever  daughter  she  may  be — not  so  bad  as  that 
neither.  [Pxei/nl  all  but  CROAKER. 

Croaker.  Yes,  yes,  all's  out ;  I  now  see  the 
whole  affair :  my  son  is  either  married,  or  going  to 
be  so,  to  this  lady,  whom  he  imposed  upon  me  as 
his  sister.  Ay,  certainly  so  ;  and  yet  I  don't  find 
it  afflicts  me  so  much  as  one  might  think.     There's 


THE  COOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  27* 

the   advantage  of  fretting  away  our  misfortunes 
beforehand,  we  never  feel  them  when  they  come. 

Enter  Miss  Richland  and  Sir  William. 

Sir  Will.  But  how  do  you  know,  madam,  that 
my  nephew  intends  setting  off  from  this  place  ? 

Miss  Rich.  My  maid  assured  me  he  was  come 
to  this  inn,  and  my  own  knowledge  of  his  intending 
to  leave  the  kingdom,  suggested  the  rest.  But 
what  do  I  see,  my  guardian  here  before  us  !  Who, 
my  dear  sir,  could  have  expected  meeting  you 
here  ;  to  what  accident  do  we  owe  this  pleasure  ? 

Croaker.   To  a  fool,  I  believe. 

Miss  Rich.   But  to  what  purpose  did  you  come  ? 

Croaker.  To  play  the  fool. 

Miss  Rich.   But  with  whom? 

Croaker.  With  greater  fools  than  myself. 

Miss  Rich.   Explain. 

Croaker.  Why,  Mr.  Honeywood  brought  me 
here,  to  do  nothing  now  I  am  here  ;  and  my  son 
is  going  to  be  married  to  I  don't  know  who  that 
is  here  ;  so  now  you  are  as  wise  as  I  am. 

Miss  Rich.   Married!  to  whom,  sir? 

Croaker.  To  Olivia ;  my  daughter,  as  I  took 
her  to  be ;  but  who  the  devil  she  is,  or  whose 
daughter  she  is,  I  know  no  more  than  the  man  in 
the  moon. 

Sir  Will.  Then,  sir,  I  can  inform  you  ;  and, 
though  a  stranger,  yet  you  shall  find  me  a  friend  to 
your  family  :  it  will  be  enough  at  present,  to  assure 
you,  that,  both  in  point  of  birth  and  fortune,  the 
young  lady  is  at  least  your  son's  equal.  Being 
left  by  her  father,  Sir  James  Woodville — 


272  FLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Croaker.  Sir  James  Woodville  !  What,  of  the 
West? 

Sir  Will.  Being  left  by  him,  I  say,  to  the  care 
of  a  mercenary  wretch,  whose  only  aim  was  to 
secure  her  fortune  to  himself,  she  was  sent  into 
France,  under  pretence  of  education ;  and  there 
every  art  was  tried  to  fix  her  for  life  in  a  convent, 
contrary  to  her  inclinations.  Of  this  I  was  in- 
formed upon  my  arrival  in  Paris  ;  and,  as  I  had 
been  once  her  father's  friend,  I  did  all  in  my 
power  to  frustrate  her  guardian's  base  intentions. 
I  had  even  meditated  to  rescue  her  from  his 
authority,  when  your  son  stept  in  with  more 
pleasing  violence,  gave  her  liberty,  and  you  a 
daughter. 

Croaker.  But  I  intend  to  have  a  daughter  of  my 
own  choosing,  sir.  A  young  lady,  sir,  whose  for- 
tune, by  my  interest  with  those  that  have  interest, 
will  be  double  what  my  son  has  a  right  to  expect ! 
Do  you  know  Mr.  Lofty,  sir  ? 

Sir  Will.  Yes,  sir ;  and  know  that  you  are 
deceived  in  him.  But  step  this  way,  and  I'll 
convince  you. 

[Croaker  and  Sir  William  seem  to  confer. 

Enter  Honeywood. 
Honeyiv.  Obstinate  man,  still  to  persist  in  his 
outrage  !  Insulted  by  him,  despised  by  all,  I  now 
begin  to  grow  contemptible,  even  to  myself.  How 
have  I  sunk  by  too  great  an  assiduity  to  please  ! 
How  have  I  overtaxed  all  my  abilities,  lest  the 
approbation  of  a  single  fool  should  escape  me  ! 
But  all  is  now  over  ;  I  have  survived  my  reputation, 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D   MAN.  273 

my  fortune,  my  friendships,  and  nothing  remains 
henceforward  for  me  but  solitude  and  repentance. 

Miss  Rich.  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Honeywood,  that 
you  are  setting  off,  without  taking  leave  of  your 
friends  ?  The  report  is,  that  you  are  quitting 
England.     Can  it  be  ? 

Honey w.  Yes,  madam  ;  and  though  I  am  so  un- 
happy as  to  have  fallen  under  your  displeasure, 
yet,  thank  Heaven,  I  leave  you  to  happiness ;  to 
one  who  loves  you,  and  deserves  your  love  ;  to  one 
who  has  power  to  procure  you  affluence,  and  gene- 
rosity to  improve  your  enjoyment  of  it. 

Miss  Rich.  And  are  you  sure,  sir,  that  the 
gentleman  you  mean  is  what  you  describe  him  ? 

Honeyw.  I  have  the  best  assurances  of  it,  his 
serving  me.  He  does  indeed  deserve  the  highest 
happiness,  and  that  is  in  your  power  to  confer. 
As  for  me,  weak  and  wavering  as  I  have  been, 
obliged  by  all,  and  incapable  of  serving  any,  what 
happiness  can  I  find  but  in  solitude  ?  What  hope 
but  in  being  forgotten  ? 

Miss  Rich.  A  thousand  !  to  live  among  friends 
that  esteem  you,  whose  happiness  it  will  be  to  be 
permitted  to  oblige  you. 

Honeyw.  No,  madam ;  my  resolution  is  fixed. 
Inferiority  among  strangers  is  easy ;  but  among 
those  that  once  were  equals,  insupportable.  Nay, 
to  show  you  how  far  my  resolution  can  go,  I  can 
now  speak  with  calmness  of  my  former  follies,  my 
vanity,  my  dissipation,  my  weakness.  I  will  even 
confess,  that,  among  the  number  of  my  other  pie- 
sumptions,  I  had  the  insolence  to  think  of  loving 
you.     Yes,    madam,    while    1    was    pleading    the 

T 


274  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

passion  of  another,  my  heart  was  tortured  with  its 
own.  But  it  is  over,  it  was  unworthy  our  friend- 
ship, and  let  it  be  forgotten. 

Miss  Rich.  You  amaze  me  ! 

Honeyiv.  But  you'll  forgive  it,  I  know  you  will  ; 
since  the  confession  should  not  have  come  from 
me  even  now,  but  to  convince  you  of  the  sincerity 
of  my  intention  of — never  mentioning  it  more. 

[  Going. 

Miss  Rich.  Stay,  sir,  one  moment — Ha  !  he 
here— 

Enter  Lofty. 

Lofty.  Is  the  coast  clear  ?  None  but  friends. 
I  have  followed  you  here  with  a  trifling  piece  of 
intelligence  :  but  it  goes  no  farther,  things  are  not 
yet  ripe  for  a  discovery.  I  have  spirits  working  at 
a  certain  board ;  your  affair  at  the  Treasury  will 
be  done  in  less  than — a  thousand  years.     Mum  ! 

Miss  Rich.  Sooner,  sir,  I  should  hope  ! 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  I  believe  it  may,  if  it  falls  into 
pioper  hands,  that  know  whereto  push  and  where 
to  parry ;  that  know  how  the  land  lies — eh, 
Honey  wood? 

Miss  Rich.   It  is  fallen  into  yours. 

Lofty.  Well,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense, 
your  thing  is  done.  It  is  done,  I  say — that's  all. 
I  have  just  had  assurances  from  Lord  Neverout, 
that  the  claim  has  been  examined,  and  found  ad- 
missible.    Quietus  is  the  word,  madam. 

Ifoneyw.  But  how  !  his  lordship  has  been  at 
Newmarket  these  ten  days  ! 

Lofty.  Indeed  !    Then  Sir  Gilbert  Goose  must 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  275 

have  been  most  damnably  mistaken.  I  had  it  of 
him. 

Miss  Rich.  He  !  why  Sir  Gilbert  and  his 
family  have  been  in  the  country  this  month  ! 

Lofty.  This  month  !  It  must  certainly  be  so — 
Sir  Gilbert's  letter  did  come  to  me  from  New- 
market, so  that  he  must  have  met  his  lordship 
there  ;  and  so  it  came  about.  I  have  his  letter 
about  me,  I'll  read  it  to  you.  ( Taking  out  a  large 
bundle.)  That's  from  Paoli  of  Corsica,1  that  from 
the  Marquis  of  Squilachi. — Have  you  a  mind  to 
see  a  letter  from  Count  Poniatowski,  now  King  of 

Poland — Honest  Pon [Searching. 

O,  sir,  what  are  you  here  too  ?  I'll  tell  you  what, 
honest  friend,  if  you  have  not  absolutely  delivered 
my  letter  to  Sir  William  Honeywood,  you  may 
return  it.     The  thing  will  do  without  him. 

Sir  Will.  Sir,  I  have  delivered  it,  and  must 
inform  you  it  was  received  with  the  most  mortify- 
ing contempt. 

Croaker.  Contempt  !  Mr.  Lofty,  what  can  that 
mean? 

Lofty.  Let  him  go  on,  let  him  go  on,  I  say. 
You'll  find  it  come  to  something  presently. 

Sir  Will.  Yes,  sir,  I  believe  you'll  be  amazed, 
if,  after  waiting  some  time  in  the  ante-chamber, 
after  being  surveyed  with  insolent  curiosity  by  the 
passing  servants,  I  was  at  last  assured,  that  Sir 
William  Honeywood  knew  no  such  person,  and  I 
must  certainly  have  been  imposed  upon. 

Lofty.  Good ;  let  me  die,  very  good.  Ha !  ha!  ha ! 

H  Pascal  Paoli,  the  Corsican  patriot.  He  came  to  England 
in  1769.  Squillaci,  an  Italian, was  Prime  Minister  at  Madrid.] 


276  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Croaker.  Now,  for  my  life,  I  can't  find  out  half 
the  goodness  of  it. 

Lofty.  You  can't  ?    Ha  !  ha  ! 

Croaker.  No,  for  the  soul  of  me  ;  I  think  it  was 
as  confounded  a  bad  answer  as  ever  was  sent  from 
one  private  gentleman  to  another. 

Lofty.  And  so  you  can't  find  out  the  force  of  the 
message  ?  Why  I  was  in  the  house  at  that  very 
time.  Ha  !  ha  !  It  was  I  that  sent  that  very 
answer  to  my  own  letter.     Ha  !  ha  ! 

Croaker.  Indeed  !    How  !  why  ! 

Lofty.  In  one  word,  things  between  Sir  William 
and  me  must  be  behind  the  curtain.  A  party  has 
many  eyes.  He  sides  with  Lord  Buzzard,  I  side 
with  Sir  Gilbert  Goose.  So  that  unriddles  the 
mystery. 

Croaker.  And  so  it  does  indeed,  and  all  my 
suspicions  are  over. 

Lofty.  Your  suspicions  !  What  then,  you  have 
been  suspecting,  you  have  been  suspecting,  have 
you  ?  Mr.  Croaker,  you  and  I  were  friends,  we 
are  friends  no  longer.  Never  talk  to  me.  It's 
over  ;  I  say,  it's  over  ! 

Croaker.  As  I  hope  for  your  favour,  I  did  not 
mean  to  offend.  It  escaped  me.  Don't  be  dis- 
composed. 

Lofty.  Zounds,  sir,  but  I  am  discomposed,  and 
will  be  discomposed.  To  be  treated  thus  !  Who 
am  I  ?  Was  it  for  this  I  have  been  dreaded  both 
by  ins  and  outs?  Have  I  been  libelled  in  the 
Gazetteer,  and  praised  in  the  St.  James's ; '  have  I 
been  chaired  at  Wildman's,  and  a  speaker  at  Mer- 
it The  St.  Lames' s  Chronicle.'] 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  277 

chant  Tailor's  Hall;  have  I  had  my  hand  to  ad- 
dresses, and  my  head  in  the  print-shops,  and  talk 
to  me  of  suspects  ! 

Croaker.  My  dear  sir,  be  pacified.  What  can 
you  have  but  asking  pardon  ? 

Lofty.  Sir,  I  will  not  be  pacified — Suspects  ! 
Who  am  I  ?  To  be  used  thus,  have  I  paid  court 
to  men  in  favour  to  serve  my  friends,  the  Lords  of 
the  Treasury.  Sir  William  Honeywood,  and  the 
rest  of  the  gang,  and  talk  to  me  of  suspects  !  Who 
am  I,  I  say,  who  am  I  ? 

Sir  Will.  Since,  sir,  you're  so  pressing  for  an 
answer,  I'll  tell  you  who  you  are.  A  gentleman, 
as  well  acquainted  with  politics,  as  with  men  in 
power ;  as  well  acquainted  with  persons  of  fashion, 
as  with  modesty  ;  with  Lords  of  the  Treasury,  as 
with  truth ;  and  with  all,  as  you  are  with  Sir 
William  Honeywood.  I  am  Sir  William  Honey- 
wood  !  [Discovering  Ms  ensigns  of  the  Bath. 

Croaker.   Sir  William  Honeywood  ! 

Honeyw.  Astonishment!  my  uncle  !  (aside.) 

Lofty.  So  then  my  confounded  genius  has  been 
all  this  time  only  leading  me  up  to  the  garret,  in 
order  to  fling  me  out  of  the  window. 

Croaker.  What,  Mr.  Importance,  and  are  these 
your  works  ?  Suspect  you  !  You,  who  have  been 
dreaded  by  the  ins  and  outs :  you,  who  have  had 
your  hand  to  addresses,  and  your  head  stuck  up 
in  print-shops.  If  you  were  served  right,  you 
should  have  your  head  stuck  up  in  the  pillory. 

Lofty.  Ay,  stick  it  where  you  will,  for,  by  the 
Lord,  it  cuts  but  a  very  poor  figure  where  it  sticks 
at  present. 


j78  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Sir  Will.  Well,  Mr.  Croaker,  I  hope  you  now 
see  how  incapable  this  gentleman  is  of  serving  5'ou, 
and  how  little  Miss  Richland  has  to  expect  from 
his  influence. 

Croaker.  Ay,  sir,  too  well  I  see  it,  and  I  can't 
but  say  I  have  had  some  boding  of  it  these  ten 
days.  So  I'm  resolved,  since  my  son  has  placed 
his  affections  on  a  lady  of  moderate  fortune  to  be 
satisfied  with  his  choice,  and  not  run  the  hazard  of 
another  Mr.  Lofty,  in  helping  him  to  a  better. 

Sir  Will.  I  approve  your  resolution,  and  here 
they  come,  to  receive  a  confirmation  of  your  par- 
don and  consent. 

Enter  Mrs.  Croaker,  Jarvis,  Leontine, 
Olivia. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Where's  my  husband  ?  Come, 
come,  lovey,  you  must  forgive  them.  Jarvis  here 
has  been  to  tell  me  the  whole  affair ;  and,  I  say, 
you  must  forgive  them.  Our  own  was  a  stolen 
match,  you  know,  my  dear;  and  we  never  bad 
any  reason  to  repent  of  it. 

Croaker.  I  wish  we  could  both  say  so  ;  however, 
this  gentleman,  Sir  William  Honey  wood,  has  been 
beforehand  with  you,  in  obtaining  their  pardon. 
So,  if  the  two  poor  fools  have  a  mind  to  marry,  I 
think  we  can  tack  them  together  without  crossing 
the  Tweed  for  it.  [Joining  their  hands. 

Leont.  How  blest,  and  unexpected !  What, 
what  can  we  say  to  such  goodness !  But  our 
future  obedience  shall  be  the  best  reply.  And, 
as  for  this  gentleman,  to  whom  we  owe — 

Sir  Will.   Excuse  mc,   sir,   if  I  interrupt  your 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAN.  279 

thanks,  as  I  have  here  an  interest  that  calls  me. 
{Turning  to  Honeywood.)     Yes,  sir,  you  are  sur- 
prised to   see  me  ;    and    I   own  that  a  desire  of 
correcting  your   follies   led    me    hither.       I    saw, 
with  indignation,  the  errors  of  a  mind  that  only 
sought  applause  from  others  ;  that  easiness  of  dis- 
position, which,  though  inclined  to  the  right,  had 
not  courage  to  condemn  the  wrong.     I  saw  with 
regret  those  splendid  errors,  that  still  took  name 
from  some  neighbouring  duty.     Your  charity,  that 
was  but  injustice  ;  your  benevolence,  that  was  but 
weakness;  and  your  friendship  but  credulity.     I 
saw,  with  regret,  great  talents  and  extensive  learn- 
ing only  employed  to  add  sprightliness  to  error, 
and  increase  your  perplexities.     I  saw  your  mind 
with  a  thousand  natural  charms  ;  but  the  greatness 
of  its  beauty  served  only  to  heighten  my  pity  for 
its  prostitution. 

Honcyiu.  Cease  to  upbraid  me,  sir ;  I  have  for 
some  time  but  too  strongly  felt  the  justice  of  your 
reproaches.  But  there  is  one  way  still  left  me. 
Yes,  sir,  I  have  determined,  this  very  hour,  to  quit 
forever  a  place  where  I  have  made  myself  the 
voluntary  slave  of  all ;  and  to  seek  among  strangers 
that  fortitude  which  may  give  strength  to  the  mind, 
and  marshal  all  its  dissipated  virtues.  Yet,  ere  I 
depart,  permit  me  to  solicit  favour  for  this  gentle- 
man; who,  notwithstanding  what  has  happened, 
has  laid  me  under  the  most  signal  obligations. 
Mr.  Lofty — 

Lofty.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  resolved  upon  a 
reformation,  as  well  as  you.  I  now  begin  to  find 
that  the  man  who  first  invented  the  art  of  speaking 


2Go  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

truth  was  a  much  cunninger  fellow  than  I  thought 
him.  And  to  prove  that  I  design  to  speak  truth 
for  the  future,  I  must  now  assure  you  that  you  owe 
your  late  enlargement  to  another ;  as,  upon  my 
soul,  I  had  no  hand  in  the  matter.  So  now,  if 
any  of  the  company  has  a  mind  for  preferment,  he 
may  take  my  place.     I'm  determined  to  resign. 

[Exit. 

Honeyn.ii.  How  have  I  been  deceived  ! 

Sir  Will.  No,  sir,  you  have  been  obliged  to  a 
kinder,  fairer  friend  for  that  favour.  To  Miss 
Richland.  Would  she  complete  our  joy,  and 
make  the  man  she  has  honoured  by  her  friend- 
ship happy  in  her  love,  I  should  then  forget  all, 
and  be  as  blest  as  the  welfare  of  my  dearest  kins- 
man can  make  me. 

Miss  Rich.  After  what  is  past,  it  would  be  but 
affectation  to  pretend  to  indifference.  Yes,  I  will 
own  an  attachment,  which,  I  find,  was  more  than 
friendship.  And  if  my  entreaties  cannot  alter  his 
resolution  to  quit  the  country,  I  will  even  try  if  my 
hand  has  not  power  to  detain  him. 

[Giving  her  hand. 

Honeyiv.  Heavens  !  how  can  I  have  deserved  all 
this  ?  How  express  my  happiness,  my  gratitude  ? 
A  moment  like  this  over-pays  an  age  of  apprehen- 
sion ! 

Croaker.  Well,  now  I  see  content  in  eveiy  face  ; 
but  Heaven  send  we  be  all  better  this  day  three 
months. 

Sir  Will.  Henceforth,  nephew,  learn  to  respect 
yourself.  He  who  seeks  only  for  applause  from 
without,  has  all  his  happiness  in  another's  keeping. 


THE  GOOD-NATUR'D  MAM.  28i 

Honeyw.  Yes,  sir,  I  now  too  plainly  perceive 
my  errors.  My  vanity,  in  attempting  to  please  all, 
by  fearing  to  offend  any.  My  meanness  in  approv- 
ing folly,  lest  fools  should  disapprove.  Henceforth, 
therefore,  it  shall  be  my  study  to  reserve  my  pity 
for  real  distress  ;  my  friendship  for  true  merit,  and 
my  love  for  her,  who  first  taught  me  what  it  is  to 
be  happy. 


EPILOGUE1 


SPOKEN    BY    MRS.    15ULKLEY. 


S  puffing  quacks  some  caitiff  wretch  pro- 
cure 
To  swear  the  pill,  or  drop,  has  wrought 
a  cure  : 

Thus  on  the  stage,  our  playwrights  still  depend 
For  Epilogues  and  Prologues  on  some  friend, 
Who  knows  each  art  of  coaxing  up  the  town, 
And  makes  full  many  a  bitter  pill  go  down. 
Conscious  of  this,  our  bard  has  gone  about, 
And  teas'd  each  rhyming  friend  to  help  him  out. 
An  Epilogue,  things  can't  go  on  without  it ; 
It  could  not  fail,  would  you  but  set  about  it. 
Young  man,  cries  one  (a  bard  laid  up  in  clover) 
Alas,  young  man,  my  writing  days  are  over ; 
Let  boys  play  tricks,  and  kick  the  straw,  not  I ; 
Your  brother  Doctor  there,  perhaps  may  try. 
What  I  !  dear  sir,  the  Doctor  interposes, 


1  The  Author,  in  expectation  of  an  Epilogue  from  a 
Friend  at  Oxford,  deferred  writing  one  himself  till  the  very- 
last  hour.  What  is  here  offered,  owes  all  its  success  to  the 
graceful  manner  of  the  Actress  who  spoke  it. 


EPILOGUE.  283 

What,  plant  my  thistle,  sir,  among  his  roses  ? 
No,  no,  I've  other  contests  to  maintain  ; 
To-night  I  head  our  troops  at  Warwick  Lane.' 
Go,  ask  your  manager  2 — Who,  me  ?  your  pardon  ; 
Those  things  are  not  our  forte  at  Covent  Garden. 
Our  Author's   friends,  thus  plac'd  at  happy  dis- 
tance, 
Give  him  good  words  indeed,  but  no  assistance. 
As  some  unhappy  wight,  at  some  new  play, 
At  the  Pit  door  stands  elbowing  away, 
While  oft,  with  many  a  smile,  and  many  a  shrug, 
lie  eyes  the  centre,  where  his  friends  sit  snug, 
His  simpering  friends  with  pleasure  in  their  eyes, 
Sink  as  he  sinks,  and  as  he  rises  rise  : 
lie  nods,  they  nod  ;  he  cringes,  they  grimace  ; 
But  not  a  soul  will  budge  to  give  him  place. 
Since  then,  unhelp'd,  our  bard  must  now  conform 
To  'bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm,3 
Blame  where  you  must,  be  candid  where  you  can, 
And  be  each  critic  the  Good-Natur'd  Man. 

[1  A  reference  to  the  pending  quarrel  between  the  Fellows 
and  Licentiates  of  the  College  of  Physicians  in  Warwick 
Lane,  respecting  the  exclusion  of  some  of  the  Licentiates 
from  Fellowships.] 

[2  George  Colman,  the  Elder.] 

P  King  Lear,  Act  III.  sc.  4.] 


SHE  STOOPS  TO   CONQUER 

OR, 

THE   MISTAKES   OF   A   NIGHT. 

A   COMEDY. 


*^*£* 


[She  Stoof>s  to  Conquer  was  produced  at  Covent  Garden  on 
Monday,  the  15th  March,  1773.  It  was  played  twelve  times 
before  the  conclusion  of  the  season  (31st  May),  the  tenth 
representation  (5th  May)  being  commanded  by  the  King 
and  Queen.  On  the  26th  March  it  was  published  in  octavo 
by  Francis  Newbery,  at  the  corner  of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard, 
with  the  following  title  :—S/ie  Stoops  to  Conquer:  or,  The 
mistakes  of  a  Night.  A  Comedy.  As  it  is  acted  at  the 
Theatre-Royal  in  Covent-Garden.  Written  by  Doctor 
Goldsmith.  The  price  was  one  shilling  and  sixpence.  The 
present  reprint  is  from  the  fourth  edition  which  appeared  in 
the  same  year  as  the  first.] 


TO  SAMUEL   JOHNSON,  LL.D. 


Dear  Sir, 

Y  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to 
you,  I  do  not  mean  so  much  to  compli- 
ment you  as  myself.  It  may  do  me 
^  some  honour  to  inform  the  public,  that 
I  have  lived  many  years  in  intimacy  with  you.  It 
may  serve  the  interests  of  mankind  also  to  inform 
them,  that  the  greatest  wit  may  be  found  in  a 
character,  without  impairing  the  most  unaffected 
piety. 

I  have,  particularly,  reason  to  thank  you  for 
your  partiality  to  this  performance.1  The  under- 
taking a  comedy,  not  merely  sentimental,  was 
very  dangerous  2  ;  and  Mr.  Colman,  who  saw  this 
piece  in  its  various  stages,  always  thought  it  so. 
However,  I  ventured  to  trust  it  to  the  public  ;  and, 

[1  Johnson  had  throughout  befriended  the  play,  and 
had  been  mainly  instrumental  in  inducing  Colman  to  pro- 
duce it.] 

[-  See  Introduction,  vol.  i,  p.  xxv.] 


288  DEDICA  TION. 

though  it  was  necessarily  delayed  till  late  in  the 
Season,1  I  have  every  reason  to  be  grateful. 
I  am,  dear  sir, 

Your  most  sincere  friend 
And  admirer, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

f1  I.e.—  When,   owing  to  holidays  and  actors'  benefits, 
there  could  not  be  many  representations.] 


PROLOGUE. 


EY    DAVID    GARRICK,    ESQ. 

Enter  Mr.  WOODWARD,1  dressed  in  black,  and 
holding  a  Handkerchief  to  his  Eyes. 

EXCUSE  me,  sirs,  I  pray — I   can't  yet 
speak — 
I'm  crying  now — and  have  been  all  the 
week  ! 

Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit,  good  masters  ; 2 
Pve  that  -within — for  which  there  are  no  plasters  ! 
Pray  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I'm  crying  ? 
The  Comic  muse,  long  sick,  is  now  a-dying  ! 
And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop  ; 
For  as  a  player,  I  can't  squeeze  out  one  drop  : 
I  am  undone,  that's  all — shall  lose  my  bread — 
I'd  rather,  but  that's  nothing — lose  my  head. 
When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 

[1  Woodward  had  no  part  in  the  piece.  He  refused  "  Tony 
Lumpkin,"  which  fell  to  Quick,  who  had  played  the  "  Pobt- 
boy  "  in  the  Good-Natur'd  Man.] 

t2  Hamlet,  Act  I.  sc.  2.] 

U 


29o  PROLOGUE. 

Shulcr  and  /  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 
To  her  a  mawkish  drab  of  spurious  breed, 
Who  deals  in  sentimentals  will  succeed  ! 
Poor  Ned  and  /  are  dead  to  all  intents, 
We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  sentiments  ! 
Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up, 
We  now  and  then  take  down  a  hearty  cup. 
What  shall  we  do  ? — If  Comedy  forsake  us  ! 
They'll  turn  us  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take 

us, 
But  why  can't  I  be  moral  ? — Let  me  try — 
My  heart  thus  pressing — fix'd  my  face  and  eye — 
With  a  sententious  look,  that  nothing  means 
(Faces  are  blocks,  in  sentimental  scenes), 
Thus  I  begin — All  is  not  gold  that  glitters, 
Pleasure  seems  sweet,  but  proves  a  glass  of  bitters. 
When  ignorance  enters,  folly  is  at  hand ; 
Learning  is  better  far  than  house  and  land. 
Let  not  your  virtue  trip,  zvho  trips  may  stumble, 
And  virtue  is  not  virtue,  if  she  tumble. 

I  give  it  up — morals  won't  do  for  me  ; 
To  make  you  laugh  I  must  play  tragedy. 
One  hope  remains — hearing  the  maid  was  ill, 
A  doctor  comes  this  night  to  show  his  skill. 
To    cheer    her    heart,    and   give     your    muscles 

motion, 
He  in  five  draughts  prepar'd,  presents  a  potion  : 
A  kind  of  magic  charm — for  be  assur'd, 
If  you  will  swalloiv  it,  the  maid  is  cur'd. 
But  desperate  the  Doctor,  and  her  case  is, 
If  you  reject  the  dose,  and  make  wry  faces  ! 
This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives, 
No  poisonous  drugs  are  mix'd  in  what  he  gives  j 


PROLOGUE.  291 

Should  he  succeed,  you'll  give  him  his  degree ; 
If  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee  ! 
The  college  you,  must  his  pretentions  back, 
Pronounce  him  regular,  or  dub  him  quack. 


DRAMATIS    PERSON^.1 


MEN. 


Sir  Charles  Marlow, 

Mr.  Gardner. 

Young  Marlow  (his 

Son) 

Mr.  Lewes. 

Hardcastle, 

Mr.  Shuter. 

Hastings, 

Mr.  Dubellamy. 

Tony  Lumpkin, 

Mr.  Quick. 

Diggory, 

Mr.  Saunders. 

WOMEN. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle, 

Mrs.  Green. 

Miss  Hardcastle, 

Mrs.  Bulkley. 

Miss  Neville,  Mrs.  Kniveton. 

Maid,  Miss  Willems. 

Landlords,  Servants,  Sfc,  &c. 

[l  The  cast  given  is  that  of  the  piece  as  first  acted.] 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER 


OR, 

THE     MISTAKES    OF    A    NIGHT.1 

ACT   I. 

Scene. — A  Chamber  in  an  old-fashioned  House. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and 

Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle. 
VOW,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  very 
particular.  Is  there  a  creature  in  the 
whole  country,  but  ourselves,  that  does 
not  take  a  trip  to  town  now  and  then, 
to  rub  off  the  rust  a  little?  There's  the  two  Miss 
H°Sgs>  ancl  our  neighbour,  Mrs.  Grigsby,  go  to 
take  a  month's  polishing  every  winter. 

P  Mitford  suggested  to  Mr.   Forster  that  the   first  title 
originated  in  Dryden's — 

"  But  kneels  to  conquer,  and  but  stoops  to  rise." 
The  second  title  was  originally  the  only  one  ;  but  was  re- 
jected as  undignified.     Reynolds  wanted  to   christen   the 
play   The   Belle's  Stratagem,  a  name   afterwards  used  by 
Mrs.  Cowley.    The  Old  House  a  New  Inn  was  also  debated.] 


294  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Hard.  Ky,  and  bring  back  vanity  and  affecta- 
tion to  last  them  the  whole  year.  I  wonder  why 
London  cannot  keep  its  own  fools  at  home.  In 
my  time,  the  follies  of  the  town  crept  slowly 
among  us,  but  now  they  travel  faster  than  a  stage- 
coach. Its  fopperies  come  down,  not  only  as 
inside  passengers,  but  in  the  very  basket.1 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  your  times  were  fine  times, 
indeed  ;  you  have  been  telling  us  of  them  for 
many  a  long  year.  Here  we  live  in  an  old  rum- 
bling mansion,  that  looks  for  all  the  world  like  an 
inn,  but  that  we  never  see  company.  Our  best 
visitors  are  old  Mrs.  Oddfish,  the  curate's  wife, 
and  little  Cripplegate,  the  lame  dancing-master  : 
And  all  our  entertainment  your  old  stories  of 
Prince  Eugene  and  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  I 
hate  such  old-fashioned  trumpery. 

Hard.  And  I  love  it.  I  love  everything  that's 
old  :  old  friends,  old  times,  old  manners,  old 
books,  old  wine  ;  and,  I  believe,  Dorothy  [taking 
her  hand),  you'll  own  I  have  been  pretty  fond  of 
an  old  wife. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Lord,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're  for 
ever  at  your  Dorothys  and  your  old  wifes.  You 
may  be  a  Darby,  but  I'll  be  no  Joan,  I  promise 
you.  I'm  not  so  old  as  you'd  make  me,  by  more 
than  one  good  year.  Add  twenty  to  twenty,  and 
make  money  of  that. 

[1  A  large  wicker  receptacle  fixed  on  the  kind  axle-tree, 
sometimes  used  for  luggage,  sometimes  for  passengers, 
occasionally  for  both.     See  Hogarth's  Country  Jim-Yard, 

J747-1 


she  sroors  to  conquer.  295 

Hard.  Let  me  see  ;  twenty  added  to  twenty, 
makes  just  fifty  and  seven! 

Mrs.  Hard.  It's  false,  Mr.  Hardcastle  :  I  was 
but  twenty  when  I  was  brought  to  bed  of  Tony, 
that  I  had  by  Mr.  Lumpkin,  my  first  husband  ; 
and  he's  not  come  to  years  of  discretion  yet. 

Hard.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for  him. 
Ay,  you  have  taught  him  finely  ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  No  matter,  Tony  Lumpkin  has  a 
good  fortune.  My  son  is  not  to  live  by  his  learning. 
I  don't  think  a  boy  wants  much  learning  to  spend 
fifteen  hundred  a  year. 

Hard.  Learning,  quotha  !  A  mere  composition 
of  tricks  and  mischief ! 

Airs.  Hard.  Humour,  my  dear  :  nothing  but 
humour.  Come,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must  allow 
the  boy  a  little  humour. 

Hard.  I'd  sooner  allow  him  a  horse-pond  !  If 
burning  the  footmen's  shoes,  frightening  the  maids, 
and  worrying  the  kittens,  be  humour,  he  has  it. 
It  was  but  yesterday  he  fastened  my  wig  to  the 
back  of  my  chair,  and  when  I  went  to  make  a 
bow,  I  popped  mybald  head  in  Mrs.  Frizzle's  face ! ' 
Mrs.  Hard.  And  am  I  to  blame  ?  The  poor 
boy  was  always  too  sickly  to  do  any  good.  A 
school  would  be  his  death.  When  he  comes  to  be 
a  little  stronger,  who  knows  what  a  year  or  two's 
Latin  may  do  for  him  ? 

Hard.  Latin  for  him  !  A  cat  and  fiddle  !  No, 
no,  the  ale-house  and  the  stable  are  the  only 
schools  he'll  ever  go  to  ! 

[1  A  trick  played  on  Goldsmith  himself  by  Lord  Clare's 
daughter.    (Forster's  Life  of  GoMsmith,  Ilk.  iv.,  ch.  15,  n.)l 


sg5  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Airs.  Hard.  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the  poor 
boy  now,  for  I  believe  we  shan't  have  him  long 
among  us.  Anybody  that  looks  in  his  face  may 
see  he's  consumptive. 

Hard.  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of  the 
symptoms. 

Mrs.  Hard.   He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hard.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the  wrong  way. 

Mrs.  Hard.   I'm  actually  afraid  of  his  lungs. 

Hard.  And  truly,  so  am  I ;  for  he  sometimes 
whoops  like  a  speaking-trumpet—  (Tony  hallooing 
behind  the  Scenes.) — O,  there  he  goes — A  very 
consumptive  figure,  truly  ! 

Enter  Tony,  crossing  the  stage. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Tony,  where  are  going,  my  charmer? 
Won't  you  give  papa  and  I  a  little  of  your  com- 
pany, lovey? 

Tony.   I'm  in  haste,  mother,  I  cannot  stay. 

Airs.  Hard.  You  shan't  venture  out  this  raw 
evening,  my  dear  :  You  look  most  shockingly. 

Tony.  I  can't  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  Three 
Pigeons  expects  me  down  every  moment.  There's 
some  fun  going  forward. 

Hard.  Ay ;  the  ale-house,  the  old  place  :  I 
thought  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.   A  low,  paltry  set  of  fellows. 

Tony.  Not  so  low,  neither.  There's  Dick 
Muggins  the  exciseman,  Jack  Slang  the  horse 
doctor,  Little  Aminadab  that  grinds  the  music 
box,  and  Tom  Twist  that  spins  the  pewter  platter. 

Airs.  Hard.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappoint  them 
for  one  nitrht,  at  least. 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  297 

Tony.  As  for  disappointing  them,  I  should  not 
much  mind  ;  but  I  can't  abide  to  disappoint  myself! 
Mrs.  Hard.   {Detaining him.)  You  shan't  go. 
Tony.   I  will,  I  tell  you. 
Mrs.  Hard.  I  say  you  shan't. 
Tony.  We'll  see  which  is  strongest,  you  or  I. 

[Exit  hauling  her  out. 

Hardcastle  solus. 
Hard.  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that  only  spoil 
each  other.  But  is  not  the  whole  age  in  a  com- 
bination to  drive  sense  and  discretion  out  of  doors? 
There's  my  pretty  darling  Kate  ;  the  fashions  of 
the  times  have  almost  infected  her  too.  By  living 
a  year  or  two  in  town,  she  is  as  fond  of  gauze,  and 
French  frippery,  as  the  best  of  them. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Hard.  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence  ! 
Dressed  out  as  my  usual,  my  Kate  !  Goodness  ! 
What  a  quantity  of  superfluous  silk  hast  thou  got 
about  thee,  girl  !  I  could  never  teach  the  fools  of 
this  age,  that  the  indigent  world  could  be  clothed 
out  of  the  trimmings  of  the  vain. 

Miss  Hard.  You  know  our  agreement,  sir. 
You  allow  me  the  morning  to  receive  and  pay 
visits,  and  to  dress  in  my  own  manner  ;  and  in  the 
evening,  I  put  on  my  housewife's  dress,  to  please 
you. 

Hard.  Well,  remember,  I  insist  on  the  terms  of 
our  agreement  ;  and,  by-the-bye,  I  believe  I  shall 
have  occasion  to  try  your  obedience  this  very 
evening. 


298  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Miss  Hard.  I  protest,  sir,  I  don't  comprehend 
your  meaning. 

Hard.  Then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  I 
expect  the  young  gentleman  I  have  chosen  to 
be  your  husband  from  town  this  very  day.  I 
have  his  father's  letter,  in  which  he  informs  me 
his  son  is  set  out,  and  that  he  intends  to  follow 
himself  shortly  after. 

Miss  Hard.  Indeed  !  I  wish  I  had  known 
something  of  this  before.  Bless  me,  how  shall 
I  behave?  It's  a  thousand  to  one  I  shan't  like 
him  ;  our  meeting  will  be  so  formal,  and  so  like  a 
thing  of  business,  that  I  shall  find  no  room  for 
friendship  or  esteem. 

Hard.  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I'll  never  control 
your  choice ;  but  Mr.  Marlow,  whom  I  have 
pitched  upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  Sir 
Charles  Marlow,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  talk 
so  often.  The  young  gentleman  has  been  bred  a 
scholar,  and  is  designed  for  an  employment  in  the 
service  of  his  country.  I  am  told  he's  a  man  of 
an  excellent  understanding. 

Miss  Hard.   Is  he  ? 

Hard.  Very  generous. 

Miss  Hard.   I  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Hard.  Young  and  brave. 

Miss  Hard.   I'm  sure  I  shall  like  him. 

Hard.  And  very  handsome. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more  {kissing 
his  hand),  he's  mine,  I'll  have  him  ! 

Hard.  And,  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he's  one  of  the 
most  bashful  and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all  the 
world. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  299 

Miss  Hard.  Eh  !  you  have  frozen  me  to  death 
again.  That  word  reserved  has  undone  all  the 
rest  of  his  accomplishments.  A  reserved  lover,  it 
is  said,  always  makes  a  suspicious  husband. 

Hard.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom  resides 
in  a  breast  that  is  not  enriched  with  nobler  virtues. 
It  was  the  very  feature  in  his  character  that  first 
struck  me. 

Miss  Hard.  He  must  have  more  striking  features 
to  catch  me,  I  promise  you.  However,  if  he  be  so 
young,  so  handsome,  and  so  everything,  as  you 
mention,  I  believe  he'll  do  still.  I  think  I'll  have 
him. 

Hard.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an  obstacle. 
It  is  more  than  an  even  wager,  he  may  not  have 
you. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you  mor- 
tify one  so? — Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead  of  breaking 
my  heart  at  his  indifference,  I'll  only  break  my 
glass  for  its  flattery.  Set  my  cap  to  some  newer 
fashion,  and  look  out  for  some  less  difficult  ad- 
mirer. 

Hard.  Bravely  resolved  !  In  the  meantime  I'll 
go  prepare  the  servants  for  his  reception  ;  as  we 
seldom  see  company,  they  want  as  much  training 
as  a  company  of  recruits  the  first  day's  muster. 

[Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle  sola. 

Miss  Hard.  Lud,  this  news  of  papa's  puts  me 

all  in  a  flutter.     Young,  handsome;  these  he  put 

last ;   but  I  put  them  foremost.     Sensible,   good- 

natur'd  ;  I  like  all  that.     But  then  reserved,  and 


3oo  PLATS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

sheepish,  that's  much  against  him.  Yet  can't  he 
be  cured  of  his  timidity,  by  being  taught  to  be 
proud  of  his  wife?  Yes,  and  can't  I— But  I  vow 
I'm  disposing  of  the  husband  before  I  have  secured 
the  lover  ! 

Enter  Miss  Neville. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  glad  you're  come,  Neville,  my 
dear.  Tell  me,  Constance,  how  do  I  look  this 
evening  ?  Is  there  anything  whimsical  about  me  ? 
Is  it  one  of  my  well-looking  days,  child?  Am  I 
in  face  to-day  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet,  now  I 
look  again — bless  me  ! — sure  no  accident  has  hap- 
pened among  the  canary  birds  or  the  goldfishes  ? 
Has  your  brother  or  the  cat  been  meddling?  Or 
has  the  last  novel  been  too  moving  ? 

Miss  Hard.  No  ;  nothing  of  all  this.  I  have 
been  threatened — I  can  scarce  get  it  out — I  have 
been  threatened  with  a  lover! 

Miss  Neville.  And  his  name 

Miss  Hard.  Is  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.  Indeed ! 

Miss  Hard.   The  son  of  Sir  Charles  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.  As  I  live,  the  most  intimate  friend 
of  Mr.  Hastings,  my  admirer.  They  are  never 
asunder.  I  believe  you  must  have  seen  him  when 
we  lived  in  town. 

Miss  Hard.   Never. 

Miss  Neville.  He's  a  very  singular  character,  I 
assure  you.  Among  women  of  reputation  and 
virtue,  he  is  the  modestest  man  alive  ;  but  his  ac- 
quaintance   give   him    a    very    different    character 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER,  301 

among  creatures  of  another  stamp  :  you  understand 
me? 

Miss  Hard.  An  odd  character,  indeed  !  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  manage  him.  What  shall  I  do  ? 
Pshaw,  think  no  more  of  him,  but  trust  to  occur- 
rences for  success.  But  how  goes  on  your  own 
affair,  my  dear  ?  Has  my  mother  been  courting 
you  for  my  brother  Tony,  as  usual  ? 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  just  come  from  one  of  our 
agreeable  icte-a-tCtes.  She  has  been  saying  a 
hundred  tender  things,  and  setting  off  her  pretty 
monster  as  the  very  pink  of  perfection. 

Miss  Hard.  And  her  partiality  is  such,  that  she 
actually  thinks  him  so.  A  fortune  like  yours  is  no 
small  temptation.  Besides,  as  she  has  the  sole 
management  of  it,  I'm  not  surprised  to  see  her  un- 
willing to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  A  fortune  like  mine,  which  chiefly 
consists  in  jewels,  is  no  such  mighty  temptation. 
But,  at  any  rate,  if  my  dear  Hastings  be  but 
constant,  I  make  no  doubt  to  be  too  hard  for  her 
at  last.  However,  I  let  her  suppose  that  I  am  in 
love  with  her  son,  and  she  never  once  dreams  that 
my  affections  are  fixed  upon  another. 

Miss  Hard.  My  good  brother  holds  out  stoutly. 
I  could  almost  love  him  for  hating  you  so. 

Miss  Neville.  It  is  a  good-natur'd  creature  at 
bottom,  and  I'm  sure  would  wish  to  see  me  married 
to  anybody  but  himself.  But  my  aunt's  bell  rings 
for  our  afternoon's  walk  through  the  improvements. 
Allons.  Courage  is  necessary,  as  our  affairs  are 
critical. 


302  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Miss  Hard.    Would  it  were  bed-time  and   all 
were  well.1  [Exeunt. 


Scene.  —  An  Alehouse  Room.  Several  shabby 
fellozvs,  with  punch  and  tobacco.  Tony  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  a  little  higher  than  the  rest :  a  mallet 
in  his  hand. 

Omnes.  Hurrea,  hurrea,  hurrea,  bravo  ! 

First  Fellow.  Now,  gentlemen,  silence  for  a  song. 
The  'Squire  is  going  to  knock  himself  down  for  a 
song. 

Omnes.  hy,  a  song,  a  song. 

Tony.  Then  I'll  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  song  I 
made  upon  this  ale-house,  the  Three  Pigeons. 

Song. 
Let  school-masters  puzzle  their  brain, 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning; 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 

Gives  genus  a  belter  discerning, 
Let  them  brag  of  their  Heathenish  Gods, 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians  ; 
Their  Quis,  and  their  Qucvs,  and  their  Quods, 

They're  all  but  a  parcel  of  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll ! 

When  Methodist  preachers  come  down, 
A -preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 


[l  I  Henry  IV.  Act  v.  Sc.  i.] 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  3°3 

Til  wager  the  rascals  a  crown, 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinful. 

But  when  you  come  down  with  your  pence, 
For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 

I'll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 

Hut  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll ! 

Then  come,  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever. 
Let  some  cry  tip  "woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons 
But  of  all  the  birds  in  the  air, 

Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll ! 

Omncs.  Bravo,  bravo  ! 

First  Fellow.  The  'Squire  has  got  spunk  in  him. 

Second  Fellow.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing,  bekeays 
he  never  gives  us  nothing  that's  low. l 

Third  Felloiv.  0  damn  anything  that's  low,  I 
cannot  bear  it ! 

Fourth  Fellow.  The  genteel  thing  is  the  genteel 
thing  at  any  time.  If  so  be  that  a  gentleman  bees 
in  a  concatenation  accordingly. 

Third  Fellow.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it,  Master 

[1  Goldsmith,  Fielding,  and  other  contemporary  humour- 
ists much  objected  to  this  particular  form  of  depreciation  on 
the  part  of  the  sentimentalists.  In  the  whole  of  this  dis- 
cussion, the  author,  no  doubt,  had  in  mind  the  rejection  of  the 
Bailiff  scene  in  the  Cood-Natur'd  JSlau.\ 


304  rLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Muggins.  What,  though  I  am  obligated  to  dance 
a  bear,  a  man  may  be  a  gentleman  for  all  that. 
May  this  be  my  poison  if  my  bear  ever  dances  but 
to  the  very  genteelest  of  tunes.  Water  Parted,1 
or  the  minuet  in  Ariadne.2 

Second  Fellow.  What  a  pity  it  is  the  'Squire  is 
not  come  to  his  own.  It  would  be  well  for  all  the 
publicans  within  ten  miles  round  of  him. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  so  it  would,  Master  Slang.  I'd 
then  show  what  it  was  to  keep  choice  of  company. 

Second  Felloiv.  O,  he  takes  after  his  own  father 
for  that.  To  be  sure,  old  'Squire  Lumpkin  was  the 
finest  gentleman  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on.  For 
winding  the  straight  horn,  or  beating  a  thicket  for 
a  hare,  or  a  wench,  he  never  had  his  fellow.  It 
was  a  saying  in  the  place,  that  he  kept  the  best 
horses,  dogs,  and  girls  in  the  whole  county. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  when  I'm  of  age  I'll  be  no 
bastard,  I  promise  you.  I  have  been  thinking  of 
Bet  Bouncer  and  the  miller's  grey  mare  to  begin 
with.  But  come,  my  boys,  drink  about  and  be 
merry,  for  you  pay  no  reckoning.  Well,  Stingo, 
what's  the  matter? 

Enter  Landlord. 

Landlord.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a  post- 
chaise  at  the  door.  They  have  lost  their  way  upo' 
the  forest  ;  and  they  are  talking  something  about 
Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be 

['  The  song  of  Arbaccs  in  Arnc's  Artaxcr.xcs,  1762.] 
[2  By  Handel.     The  minuet  came  at  the  end  of  the  over- 
ture, and  is  said  lo  have  been  the  best  thing  in  the  opera.] 


she  sroors  to  conquer.  303 

the  gentleman  that's  coming  down   to  court   my 
sister.     Do  they  seem  to  be  Londoners  ? 

Landloi-d.  I  believe  they  may.  They  look 
woundily  like  Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and 
I'll  set  them  right  in  a  twinkling.  (Exit  Land- 
lord.) Gentlemen,  as  they  mayn't  be  good 
enough  company  for  you,  step  down  for  a  moment, 
and  I'll  be  with  you  in  the  squeezing  of  a  lemon. 

{Exeunt  Mob. 
Tony  solus. 

Tony.  Father-in-law  has  been  calling  me  whelp, 
and  hound,  this  half  year.  Now,  if  I  pleased,  I 
could  be  so  revenged  upon  the  old  grumbletonian. 
But  then  I'm  afraid — afraid  of  what?  I  shall  soon 
be  worth  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  and  let  him 
frighten  me  out  of  that  if  he  can  ! 

Enter  Landlord,  conducting  Marlow  and 
Hastings. 

Marlow.  What  a  tedious  uncomfortable  day 
have  we  had  of  it !  We  were  told  it  was  but  forty 
miles  across  the  country,  and  we  have  come  above 
threescore  ! 

Hastings.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unaccount- 
able reserve  of  yours,  that  would  not  let  us  enquire 
more  frequently  on  the  way. 

Marlow.  I  own,  Hastings,  I  am  unwilling  to 
lay  myself  under  an  obligation  to  every  one  I 
meet ;  and  often  stand  the  chance  of  an  unman- 
nerly answer. 

Hastings.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not 
likely  to  receive  any  answer. 

x 


3°6  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen.  But  I'm  told  you 
have  been  enquiring  for  one  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in 
these  parts.  Do  you  know  what  part  of  the 
country  you  are  in  ? 

Hastings.  Not  in  the  least,  sir,  but  should  thank 
you  for  information. 

Tony.  Nor  the  way  you  came  ? 

Hastings.   No,  sir,  but  if  you  can  inform  us 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither  the 
road  you  are  going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the 
road  you  came,  the  first  thing  I  have  to  inform  is, 
that — you  have  lost  your  way. 

Marlow.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that.1 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to 
ask  the  place  from  whence  you  came  ? 

Marlow.  That's  not  necessary  towards  directing 
us  where  we  are  to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence  ;  but  question  for  question  is 
all  fair,  you  know.  Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this 
same  Hardcastle  a  cross-grained,  old-fashioned, 
whimsical  fellow  with  an  ugly  face ;  a  daughter, 
and  a  pretty  son  ? 

Hastings.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman,  but 
he  has  the  family  you  mention. 

Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,  trapesing,  trolloping, 
talkative  maypole The  son,  a  pretty,  well- 
bred,  agreeable  youth,  that  everybody  is  fond  of ! 

Marlow.  Our  information  differs  in  this.  The 
daughter  is  said  to  be  well-bred  and  beautiful ;  the 
son,  an  awkward  booby,  reared  up  and  spoiled  at 
his  mother's  apron-string. 

Tony.   Ile-he-hem — then  gentlemen,  all  I  have 
[1  Hamlet,  Act  I.,  Sc.  5.] 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  3°7 

to  tell  you  is,  that  you  won't  reach  Mr.  Hard- 
castle's  house  this  night,  I  believe. 

Hastings.   Unfortunate  ! 

Tony.  It's  a  damned  long,  dark,  boggy,  dirty, 
dangerous  way.  Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the 
way  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's.  (Winking  upon  the 
Landlord.)  Mr.  Hardcastle's  of  Quagmire  Marsh, 
you  understand  me. 

Landlord.  Master  Hardcastle's  !  Lack-a-daisy, 
my  masters,  you're  come  a  deadly  deal  wrong  ! 
When  you  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  you 
should  have  crossed  down  Squash  Lane. 

Marlow.  Cross  down  Squash  Lane  ! 

Landlord.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  for- 
ward, until  you  came  to  four  roads. 

Marlow.  Come  to  where  four  roads  meet ! 

Tony.  Ay,  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only 
one  of  them. 

MarlocO.  O,  sir,  you're  facetious  ! 

Tony.  Then,  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to  go 
sideways  till  you  come  upon  Crack-skull  common  : 
there  you  must  look  sharp  for  the  track  of  the 
wheel,  and  go  forward,  till  you  come  to  farmer 
Murrain's  barn.  Coming  to  the  farmer's  barn, 
you  are  to  turn  to  the  right,  and  then  to  the  left, 
and  then  to  the  right  about  again,  till  you  find  out 
the  old  mill 

Marlow.  Zounds,  man  !  we  could  as  soon  find 
out  the  longitude  !  1 

P  This  was  a  popular  inquiry  in  the  last  century,  owing 
to  the  reward  of  ^20,000  offered  by  Parliament  in  1714  for 
the  discovery  of  a  means  of  accurately  ascertaining  the 
longitude    at   sea.      The  father  of  Johnson's  friend   Miss 


3o8  PLAVS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Hastings.  What's  to  be  done,  Marlow  ? 

Marlow.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor  re- 
ception, though,  perhaps,  the  landlord  can  accom- 
modate us. 

Landlord.  Alack,  master,  we  have  but  one  spare 
bed  in  the  whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  my  knowledge,  that's  taken  up 
by  three  lodgers  already.  {After  a  pause,  in  which 
the  rest  seem  disconcerted.)  I  have  hit  it.  Don't 
you  think,  Stingo,  our  landlady  could  accommodate 

the    gentlemen    by   the    fire-side,    with three 

chairs  and  a  bolster? 

Hastings.  I  hate  sleeping  by  the  fire-side. 

Marlow.  And  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and  a 
bolster. 

Tony.  You  do,  do  you  ? — then  let  me  see— 
what — if  you  go  on  a  mile  further,  to  the  Buck's 
Head ;  the  old  Buck's  Head  on  the  hill,  one  of 
the  best  inns  in  the  whole  county  ? 

Hastings.  Oh,  oh  !  so  we  have  escaped  an 
adventure  for  this  night,  however. 

Landlord  {apart  to  Tony).  Sure,  you  ben't 
sending  them  to  your  father's  as  an  inn,  be  you  ? ' 

Tony.  Mum,  you  fool,  you.  Let  them  find  that 
out.  {To  them.)  You  have  only  to  keep  on 
straight  forward,  till  you  come  to  a  large  old  house 

Williams,  is  said  by  Boswell  to  have  made  "  many  ingenious 
advances "  in  this  direction  ;  but  the  reward  was  finally 
gained  by  John  Harrison.] 

P  This  was  the  recollection  of  a  trick  played  upon  Gold- 
smith himself  in  his  youth.  Enquiring  at  Ardagh,  with 
boyish  importance,  for  the  "  best  house  "  (i.e.  inn),  he  was 
directed  by  a  practical  joker  to  the  residence  of  the  local 
magnate,  Squire  Featherston.] 


SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER.  309 

by  the  roadside.  You'll  see  a  pair  of  large  horns 
over  the  door.  That's  the  sign.  Drive  up  the 
yard,  and  call  stoutly  about  you. 

Hastings.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The 
servants  can't  miss  the  way  ? 

Tony.  No,  no :  But  I  tell  you  though,  the 
landlord  is  rich,  and  going  to  leave  off  business  ; 
so  he  wants  to  be  thought  a  gentleman,  saving 
your  presence,  he  !  he  !  he  !  He'll  be  for  giving 
you  his  company,  and,  ecod,  if  you  mind  him,  he'll 
persuade  you  that  his  mother  was  an  alderman, 
and  his  aunt  a  justice  of  the  peace  ! 

Landlord.  A  troublesome  old  blade,  to  be  sure  ; 
but  'a  keeps  as  good  wines  and  beds  as  any  in  the 
whole  country. 

Marlow.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we 
shall  want  no  further  connection.  We  are  to  turn 
to  the  right,  did  you  say  ? 

Tony.  No,  no  ;  straight  forward.  I'll  just  step 
myself,  and  show  you  a  piece  of  the  way.  (  To  the 
Landlord.)     Mum. 

Landlord.   Ah,    bless  your  heart,   for  a  sweet, 

pleasant damned  mischievous  son  of  a  whore 

[Exeunt. 


END  OF   THE   FIRST  ACT. 


3'o  PLAVS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


ACT   II. 

Scene. — An  old-fashioned  House. 

Enter  Hardcastle,  followed  by  three  or  four 
awkivard  Servants. 

Hardcastle. 
[IELL,  I  hope  you're  perfect  in  the  table 
exercise  I  have  been  teaching  you  these 
three  days.     You  all  know  your  posts 
and   your   places,  and  can  show  that 
you   have  been  used  to   good  company,  without 
ever  stirring  from  home. 
Omnes.  Ay,  ay. 

Hard.  When  company  comes,  you  are  not  to 
pop  out  and  stare,  and   then  run  in  again,  like 
frightened  rabbits  in  a  warren. 
Omnes.  No,  no. 

Hard.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken  from 
the  barn  are  to  make  a  show  at  the  side-table ; 
and  you,  Roger,  whom  I  have  advanced  from  the 
plough,  are  to  place  yourself  behind  my  chair. 
But  you're  not  to  stand  so,  with  your  hands  in 
your  pockets.  Take  your  hands  from  your  pockets, 
Roger  ;  and  from  your  head,  you  blockhead,  you. 
See  how  Diggory  carries  his  hands.  They're  a 
little  too  sliif,  indeed,  but  that's  no  great  matter. 
Diggory.  Ay,  mind  how  I  hold  them.     I  learned 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  311 

to  hold  my  hands  this  way,  when  I  was  upon 
drill  for  the  militia.     And  so  being  upon  drill 

Hard.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Diggory. 
You  must  be  all  attention  to  the  guests.  You 
must  hear  us  talk,  and  not  think  of  talking  ;  you 
must  see  us  drink,  and  not  think  of  drinking  ;  you 
must  see  us  eat,  and  not  think  of  eating. 

Diggory.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that's  par- 
fectly  impossible.  Whenever  Diggory  sees  yeating 
going  forward,  ecod,  he's  always  wishing  for  a 
mouthful  himself. 

Hard.  Blockhead !  Is  not  a  bellyful  in  the 
kitchen  as  good  as  a  bellyful  in  the  parlour? 
Stay  your  stomach  with  that  reflection. 

Diggory.  Ecod,  I  thank  your  worship,  I'll  make 
a  shift  to  stay  my  stomach  with  a  slice  of  cold  beef 
in  the  pantry. 

Hard.  Diggory,  you  are  too  talkative.  Then,  if 
I  happen  to  say  a  good  thing,  or  tell  a  good  story 
at  table,  you  must  not  all  burst  out  a-laughing,  as 
if  you  made  part  of  the  company. 

Diggory.  Then,  ecod,  your  worship  must  not  tell 
the  story  of  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room : l  I 
can't  help  laughing  at  that — he  !  he  !  he  ! — for 
the  soul  of  me  !  We  have  laughed  at  that  these 
twenty  years — ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hard.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  The  story  is  a  good  one. 
Well,  honest  Diggory,  you  may  laugh  at  that — 
but  still  remember  to  be  attentive.  Suppose  one 
of  the  company  should  call  for  a  glass  of  wine 


[1  This  story  has  escaped  identification,  like  "Taffy  in 
the  Sedan  Chair"  in  the  Citizen  0/ the  Wot  Id. \ 


31a  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

how  will  you  behave?    A  glass  of  wine,  sir,  if  you 
please  (to  Diggory) — Eh,  why  don't  you  move? 

Diggory.  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never  have 
courage  till  I  see  the  eatables  and  drinkables 
brought  upo'  the  table,  and  then  I'm  as  bauld  as 
a  lion. 

Hard.   What,  will  nobody  move  ? 

First  Servant.   Em  not  to  leave  this  pleace. 

Second  Serz'ant.  Em  sure  it's  no  pleace  of  mine. 

Third  Servant.  Nor  mine,  for  sartain. 

Diggory.  Wauns,  and  Em  sure  it  canna  be  mine. 

Hard.  You  numskulls  !  and  so  while,  like 
your  betters,  you  are  quarrelling  for  places,  the 
guests  must  be  starved.  O,  you  dunces  !  I  find  I 
must  begin  all  over  again. — But  don't  I  hear  a 
coach  drive  into  the  yard  ?  To  your  posts,  you 
blockheads  !  Ell  go  in  the  meantime  and  give  my 
old  friend's  son  a  hearty  reception  at  the  gate. 

[Exit  Hardcastle. 

Diggory.  By  the  elevens,  my  pleace  is  gone 
quite  out  of  my  head  ! 

Roger.  I  know  that  my  pleace  is  to  be  every- 
where ! 

First  Servant.   Where  the  devil  is  mine? 

Second  Servant.  My  pleace  is  to  be  nowhere  at 
all  ;  and  so  I  ze  go  about  my  business  ! 

[Exeunt  Servants,  running  about  as 
ij  frighted,  different  toays. 

Enter  Servant  with  Candles,  showing  in 
Marlow  and  Hastings. 
Servant.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  welcome. 
This  way. 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  3i3 

Hastings.  After  the  disappointments  of  the  day, 
welcome  once  more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a 
clean  room  and  a  good  fire.  Upon  my  word,  a 
very  well-looking  house ;  antique  but  credit- 
able. 

Marlow.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  mansion. 
Having  first  ruined  the  master  by  good  house- 
keeping, it  at  last  comes  to  levy  contributions  as 
an  inn. 

Hastings.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be 
taxed  to  pay  all  these  fineries.  I  have  often  seen 
a  good  sideboard,  or  a  marble  chimney-piece, 
though  not  actually  put  in  the  bill,  inflame  a 
reckoning  confoundedly. 

Marlow.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in  all 
places.  The  only  difference  is,  that  in  good  inns, 
you  pay  dearly  for  luxuries  ;  in  bad  inns,  you  are 
fleeced  and  starved. 

Hastings.  You  have  lived  pretty  much  among 
them.  In  truth,  I  have  been  often  surprised,  that 
you  who  have  seen  so  much  of  the  world,  with 
your  natural  good  sense,  and  your  many  oppor- 
tunities, could  never  yet  acquire  a  requisite  share 
of  assurance. 

Marlow.  The  Englishman's  malady.  But  tell 
me,  George,  where  could  I  have  learned  that 
assurance  you  talk  of?  My  life  has  been  chiefly 
spent  in  a  college,  or  an  inn,  in  seclusion  from 
that  lovely  part  of  the  creation  that  chiefly  teach 
men  confidence.  I  don't  know  that  I  was  ever 
familiarly  acquainted  with  a  single  modest  woman 
— except  my  mother— But  among  females  of 
another  class,  you  know — 


3i4  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Hastings.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  impudent 
enough  of  all  conscience  ! 

Marlow.  They  are  of  us,  you  know. 

Hastings.  But  in  the  company  of  women  of 
reputation  I  never  saw  such  an  idiot,  such  a 
trembler ;  you  look  for  all  the  world  as  if  you 
wanted  an  opportunity  of  stealing  out  of  the  room. 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  that's  because  I  do  want  to 
steal  out  of  the  room.  Faith,  I  have  often  formed 
a  resolution  to  break  the  ice,  and  rattle  away  at 
any  rate.  But  I  don't  know  how,  a  single  glance 
from  a  pair  of  fine  eyes  has  totally  overset  my 
resolution.  An  impudent  fellow  may  counterfeit 
modesty,  but  I'll  be  hanged  it  a  modest  man  can 
ever  counterfeit  impudence. 

Hastings.  If  you  could  but  say  half  the  fine 
things  to  them  that  I  have  heard  you  lavish  upon 
the  barmaid  of  an  inn,  or  even  a  college  bed- 
maker — 

Marlow.  Why,  George,  I  can't  say  fine  things 
to  them.  They  freeze,  they  petrify  me.  They 
may  talk  of  a  comet,  or  a  burning  mountain,  or 
some  such  bagatelle.  But  to  me,  a  modest 
woman,  dressed  out  in  all  her  finery,  is  the  most 
tremendous  object  of  the  whole  creation. 

Hastings.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  At  this  rate,  man, 
how  can  you  ever  expect  to  marry  ! 

Marlow.  Never,  unless,  as  among  kings  and 
princes,  my  bride  were  to  be  courted  by  proxy. 
If,  indeed,  like  an  Eastern  bridegroom,  one  were 
to  be  introduced  to  a  wife  he  never  saw  before,  it 
might  be  endured.  But  to  go  through  all  the 
terrors  of  a  formal   courtship,  together  with  the 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  315 

episode  of  aunts,  grandmothers  and  cousins,  and  at 
last  to  blurt  out  the  broad  staring  question  of, 
madam,  will  you  marry  me?  No,  no,  that's  a 
strain  much  above  me,  I  assure  you  ! 

Hastings.  I  pity  you.  But  how  do  you  intend 
behaving  to  the  lady  you  are  come  down  to  visit 
at  the  request  of  your  father  ? 

Marlow.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies.  Bow 
very  low.  Answer  yes,  or  no,  to  all  her  demands 
— But  for  the  rest,  I  don't  think  I  shall  venture  to 
look  in  her  face,  till  I  see  my  father's  again. 

Hastings.  I'm  surprised  that  one  who  is  so 
warm  a  friend  can  be  so  cool  a  lover. 

i\Iarl<nv.  To  be  explicit,  my  dear  Hastings,  my 
chief  inducement  down  was  to  be  instrumental  in 
forwarding  your  happiness,  not  my  own.  Miss 
Neville  loves  you,  the  family  don't  know  you,  as 
my  friend  you  are  sure  of  a  reception,  and  let 
honour  do  the  rest. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Marlow  !  Bat  I'll  suppress 
the  emotion.  Were  I  a  wretch,  meanly  seeking 
to  cany  off  a  fortune,  you  should  be  the  last  man 
in  the  world  I  would  apply  to  for  assistance.  But 
Miss  Neville's  person  is  all  I  ask,  and  that  is 
mine,  both  from  her  deceased  father's  consent, 
and  her  own  inclination. 

jlfarloTV.  Happy  man  !  You  have  talents  and 
art  to  captivate  any  woman.  I'm  doomed  to 
adore  the  sex,  and  yet  to  converse  with  the  only 
part  of  it  I  despise.  This  stammer  in  my  address, 
and  this  awkward  prepossessing  visage  of  mine, 
can  never  permit  me  to  soar  above  the  reach  of  a 
milliner's  apprentice,  or  one  of  the  duchesses  of 


3i6  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Drury-lane.     Pshaw  !  this  fellow  here  to  interrupt 

us. 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hard.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are  heartily 
welcome.  Which  is  Mr.  Marlow?  Sir,  you're 
heartily  welcome.  It's  not  my  way,  you  see,  to 
receive  my  friends  with  my  back  to  the  fire.  I 
like  to  give  them  a  hearty  reception  in  the  old 
style  at  my  gate.  I  like  to  see  their  horses  and 
trunks  taken  care  of. 

Marlow.  [aside.)  He  has  got  our  names  from 
the  servants  already.  (To  him.)  We  approve 
your  caution  and  hospitality,  sir.  (71?  Hastings.) 
I  have  been  thinking,  George,  of  changing  our 
travelling  dresses  in  the  morning.  I  am  grown 
confoundedly  ashamed  of  mine. 

Hard.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you'll  use  no  cere- 
mony in  this  house. 

Hastings.  I  fancy,  George,  you're  right  :  the 
first  blow  is  half  the  battle.  I  intend  opening  the 
campaign  with  the  white  and  gold. 

Hard.  Mr.  Marlow— Mr.  Hastings — gentlemen 
— pray  be  under  no  constraint  in  this  house.  This 
is  Liberty  Hall,  gentlemen.  You  may  do  just  as 
you  please  here. 

Marlow.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign 
too  fiercely  at  first,  we  may  want  ammunition  be- 
fore it  is  over.  I  think  to  reserve  the  embroidery 
to  secure  a  retreat. 

Hard.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  Marlow, 
puts  me  in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
when  we  went  to  besiege  Denain.  He  first  sum- 
moned the  garrison 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  3*7 

Marlow.  Don't  you  think  the  venire  (Tor  waist- 
coat will  do  with  the  plain  brown  ? 

Hani.  lie  first  summoned  the  garrison,  which 
might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men 

Hastings.  I  think  not  :  brown  and  yellow  mix 
but  very  poorly. 

Hard.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
he  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might  consist  of 
about  five  thousand  men 

Marlow.  The  girls  like  finery. 

Hard.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five  thou- 
sand men,  well  appointed  with  stores,  ammuni- 
tion, and  other  implements  of  war.  "Now,"  says 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough  to  George  Brooks,  that 
stood  next  to  him  —  you  must  have  heard  of 
George  Brooks  ;  "I'll  pawn  my  Dukedom,"  says 
he,  "but  I  take  that  garrison  without  spilling  a 
drop  of  blood  ! "    So 

Marloiv.  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you  gave  us 
a  glass  of  punch  in  the  meantime,  it  would  help  us 
to  carry  on  the  siege  with  vigour. 

Hard.     Punch,    sir! {Aside.)     This   is    the 

most  unaccountable  kind  of  modesty  I  ever  met 
with  ! 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  punch  !  A  glass  of  warm 
punch,  after  our  journey,  will  be  comfortable. 
This  is  Liberty  Hall,  you  know. 

Hard.  Here's  cup,  sir. 

Marlo-cO  {aside).  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty 
Hall,  will  only  let  us  have  just  what  he  pleases. 

Hard,  {taking  the  cup.)  I  hope  you'll  find  it  to 
your  mind.  I  have  prepared  it  with  my  own  hands, 
and  I  believe  you'll  own  the  ingredients  are  tole- 


3i&  FLATS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

rable.     Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me,  sir? 
Here,  Mr.  Marlow,  here  is  our  better  acquaintance  ! 

[Drinks. 

Marlow  (aside).  A  very  impudent  fellow  this  ! 
but  he's  a  character,  and  I'll  humour  him  a  little. 
Sir,  my  service  to  you.  [Drinks. 

Hustings  (aside).  I  see  this  fellow  wants  to  give 
us  his  company,  and  forgets  that  he's  an  innkeeper, 
before  he  has  learned  to  be  a  gentleman. 

Marlow.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my 
old  friend,  I  suppose  you  have  a  good  deal  of  busi- 
ness in  this  part  of  the  country.  Warm  work,  now 
and  then,  at  elections,  I  suppose  ? 

Hard.  No,  sir,  I  have  long  given  that  work 
over.  Since  our  betters  have  hit  upon  the  expe- 
dient of  electing  each  other,  there's  no  business 
for  us  that  sell  ale. 

Hastings.  So,  then  you  have  no  turn  for  poli- 
tics, I  find. 

Hard.  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a  time, 
indeed,  I  fretted  myself  about  the  mistakes  of 
government,  like  other  people ;  but,  finding  my- 
self every  day  grow  more  angry,  and  the  govern- 
ment growing  no  better,  I  left  it  to  mend  itself. 
Since  that,  I  no  more  trouble  my  head  about 
Hcyder  Ally,1  or  Ally  Cazan,"  than  about  Ally 
Croaker.*     Sir,  my  service  to  you. 

[L  The  famous  Sultan  of  Mysore,  1717-82.] 

[-  Cossim  Ali  Cawn,  Subah  of  Bengal.] 

[3  "Ally  Croaker  "  is  the  Irish  ditty  beginning — 

"  There  lived  a  man  in  Ballinacrasy 

Who  wanted  a  wife  to  make  him  unasy." 

It  was  described  as  "  a  new  Song"  in  1753.] 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  319 

Hastings.  So  that,  with  eating  above  stairs,  and 
drinking  below,  with  receiving  your  friends  within, 
andamusing  them  without,  you  lead  a  good  pleasant 
bustling  life  of  it. 

Hard.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that's  certain. 
Half  the  differences  of  the  parish  are  adjusted  in 
this  very  parlour. 

Marlow  {After  drinking).  And  you  have  an 
argument  in  your  cup,  old  gentleman,  better  than 
any  in  Westminster  Hall. 

Hard.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a  little 
philosophy. 

Marlow  {aside).  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  heard  of  an  innkeeper's  philosophy. 

Hastings.  So  then,  like  an  experienced  general, 
you  attack  them  on  every  quarter.  If  you  find 
their  reason  manageable,  you  attack  it  with  your 
philosophy  ;  if  you  find  they  have  no  reason,  you 
attack  them  with  this.  Here's  your  health,  my 
philosopher.  {Drinks. 

Hard.  Good,  very  good,  thank  you  ;  ha  !  ha  ! 
Your  generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of  Prince 
Eugene,  when  he  fought  the  Turks  at  the  battle 
of  Belgrade.     You  shall  hear. 

Marlow.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I 
believe  it's  almost  time  to  talk  about  supper. 
What  has  your  philosophy  got  in  the  house  for 
supper  ? 

Hard.  For  supper,  sir  ! {Aside.)     Was  ever 

such  a  request  to  a  man  in  his  own  house  ! 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  supper,  sir;  I  begin  to  feel 
an  appetite.  I  shall  make  devilish  work  to-night 
in  the  larder,  I  promise  you. 


32o  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Hard,  {aside.)  Such  a  brazen  dog  sure  never 
my  eyes  beheld.  {To  him.)  Why,  really,  sir, 
as  for  supper  I  can't  well  tell.  My  Dorothy, 
and  the  cook  maid,  settle  these  things  between 
them.    I  leave  these  kind  of  things  entirely  to  them. 

Marloiv.  You  do,  do  you  ? 

Hard.  Entirely.  By-the-bye,  I  believe  they  are 
in  actual  consultation  upon  what's  for  supper  this 
moment  in  the  kitchen. 

Marloiu.  Then  I  beg  they'll  admit  me  as  one  of 
their  privy  council.  It's  a  way  I  have  got.  When 
I  travel,  I  always  choose  to  regulate  my  own  supper. 
Let  the  cook  be  called.     No  offence,  I  hope,  sir. 

Hard.  O,  no,  sir,  none  in  the  least  ;  yet,  I  don't 
know  how  :  our  Bridget,  the  cook  maid,  is  not 
very  communicative  upon  these  occasions.  Should 
we  send  for  her,  she  might  scold  us  all  out  of  the 
house. 

Hastings.  Let's  see  your  list  of  the  larder,  then. 
I  ask  it  as  a  favour.  I  always  match  my  appetite 
to  my  bill  of  fare. 

Marlow  { To  1 1  ardc  asti.e,  who  looks  at  them  :ci/k 
surprise).  Sir,  he's  very  right,  and  it's  my  way,  too. 
Hard.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command  here. 
Here,  Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-night's 
supper.  I  believe  it's  drawn  out.  Your  manner, 
Mr.  Hastings,  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  uncle,  Colonel 
Wallop.  It  was  a  saying  of  his,  that  no  man  was 
sure  of  his  supper  till  he  had  eaten  it. 

Hastings  {aside).  All  upon  the  high  ropes  !  His 
uncle  a  colonel !  We  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother 
being  a  justice  of  peace.  But  let's  hear  the  bill 
of  fare. 


SttE   STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  y>t 

Marlow  {Perusing).  What's  here?  For  the 
first  course  ;  for  the  second  course  ;  for  the  desert. 
The  devil,  sir,  do  you  think  we  have  brought 
down  the  whole  Joiners'  Company,  or  the  Cor- 
poration of  Bedford,  to  eat  up  such  a  supper  ?  Two 
or  three  little  things,  clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hastings.  But  let's  hear  it. 

Marlow  [Reading).  For  the  first  course  at  the 
top,  a  pig,  and  prune  sauce. 

Hastings.  Damn  your  pig,  I  say  ! 

Marlow.  And  damn  your  prune  sauce,  say  I  ! 

Hard.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that  are 
hungry,  pig,  with  prune  sauce,  is  very  good  eating. 

Marlow.  At  the  bottom,  a  calfs  tongue  and 
brains. 

Hastings.  Let  your  brains  be  knocked  out,  my 
good  sir  ;  I  don't  like  them. 

Marlow.  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a  plate  by 
themselves,  I  do. 

Hard,  (aside.)  Their  impudence  confounds  me. 
(To  them.)  Gentlemen,  you  are  my  guests,  make 
what  alterations  you  please.  Is  there  anything 
else  you  wish  to  retrench  or  alter,  gentlemen  ? 

Marlow.  Item.  A  pork  pie,  a  boiled  rabbit  and 
sausages,  a  florentine,  a  shaking  pudding,  and  a 
dish  of  tiff — taff — taffety  cream  ! 

Hastings.  Confound  your  made  dishes,  I  shall 
be  as  much  at  a  loss  in  this  house  as  at  a  green  and 
yellow  dinner  at  the  French  ambassador's  table, 
I'm  for  plain  eating. 

Hard.  I'm  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have  nothing 
you  like,  but  if  there  be  anything  you  have  a  par- 
ticular fancy  to 

Y 


322  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Marlow.  Why,  really,  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  sO 
exquisite,  that  any  one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as 
another.  Send  us  what  you  please.  So  much 
for  supper.  And  now  to  see  that  our  beds  are 
aired,  and  properly  taken  care  of. 

Hard.  I  entreat  you'll  leave  all  that  to  me. 
You  shall  not  stir  a  step. 

Marlow.  Leave  that  to  you  !  I  protest,  sir, 
you  must  excuse  me,  I  always  look  to  these  things 
myself. 

Hard.  I  must  insist,  sir,  you'll  make  yourself 
easy  on  that  head. 

Marlow.  You  see  I'm  resolved  on  it. — {Aside.) 
A  very  troublesome  fellow  this,  as  ever  I  met  with. 

Hard.  Well,  sir,  I'm  resolved  at  least  to  attend 
you. — (Aside.)  This  may  be  modern  modesty, 
but  I  never  saw  anything  look  so  like  old-fashioned 
impudence.   [Exeunt  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hastings  solus. 
Hastings.  So  I  find  this  fellow's  civilities  begin 
to  grow  troublesome.  But  who  can  be  angry  at 
those  assiduities  which  are  meant  to  please  him  ? 
Ha  !  what  do  I  see  !  Miss  Neville,  by  all  that's 
happy  ! 

Enter  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  Hastings !  To  what 
unexpected  good  fortune  ?  to  what  accident  am  I 
to  ascribe  this  happy  meeting? 

Hastings.  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same  question, 
as  I  could  never  have  hoped  to  meet  my  dearest 
Constance  at  an  inn. 


SHE  STOOrS   TO  CONQUER.  323 

Miss  Neville.  An  inn  !  sure  you  mistake  !  my 
aunt,  my  guardian,  lives  here.  What  could  in- 
duce you  to  think  this  house  an  inn? 

Hastings.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with  whom 
I  came  down,  and  I,  have  been  sent  here  as  to  an 
inn,  I  assure  you.  A  young  fellow  whom  we 
accidentally  met  at  a  house  hard  by  directed  us 
hither. 

Miss  Neville.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of  my 
hopeful  cousin's  tricks,  of  whom  you  have  heard 
me  talk  so  often,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hastings.  He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for 
you  ?  He  of  whom  I  have  such  just  apprehen- 
sions? 

Miss  Neville.  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from 
him,  I  assure  you.  You'd  adore  him  if  you  knew 
how  heartily  he  despises  me.  My  aunt  knows  it 
too,  and  has  undertaken  to  court  me  for  him,  and 
actually  begins  to  think  she  has  made  a  conquest. 

Hastings.  Thou  dear  dissembler !  You  must 
know,  my  Constance,  I  have  just  seized  this  happy 
opportunity  of  my  friend's  visit  here  to  get  admit- 
tance into  the  family.  The  horses  that  carried  us 
down  are  now  fatigued  with  their  journey,  but 
they'll  soon  be  refreshed  ;  and  then,  if  my  dearest 
girl  will  trust  in  her  faithful  Hastings,  we  shall 
soon  be  landed  in  France,  where  even  among 
slaves  the  laws  of  marriage  are  respected.1 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  often  told  you,  that  though 

[!  This  was  regarded  as  an  oblique  allusion  to  the  mar- 
riage of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  with  Lady  Waldegrave, 
which  was  one  of  the  causes  of  the  restrictive  "Royal 
Marriage  Act"  of  1772.] 


324  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

ready  to  obey  you,  I  yet  should  leave  my  little 
fortune  behind  with  reluctance.  The  greatest  part 
of  it  was  left  me  by  my  uncle,  the  India  Director, 
and  chiefly  consists  in  jewels.  I  have  been  for 
some  time  persuading  my  aunt  to  let  me  wear 
them.  I  fancy  I'm  very  near  succeeding.  The 
instant  they  are  put  into  my  possession  you  shall 
find  me  ready  to  make  them  and  myself  yours. 

Hastings.  Perish  the  baubles  !  Your  person  is 
all  I  desire.  In  the  meantime,  my  friend  Marlow 
must  not  be  let  into  his  mistake.  I  know  the 
strange  reserve  of  his  temper  is  such,  that  if 
abruptly  informed  of  it,  he  would  instantly  quit 
the  house  before  our  plan  was  ripe  for  execution. 

Miss  Neville.  But  how  shall  we  keep  him  in  the 
deception  ?  Miss  Hardcastle  is  just  returned  from 
walking  ;  what  if  we  still  continue  to  deceive  him  ? 
— This,  this  way [  They  confer. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  The  assiduities  of  these  good  people 
tease  me  beyond  bearing.  My  host  seems  to  think 
it  ill  manners  to  leave  me  alone,  and  so  he  claps 
not  only  himself,  but  his  old-fashioned  wife  on  my 
back.  They  talk  of  coming  to  sup  with  us,  too ; 
and  then,  I  suppose,  we  are  to  run  the  gauntlet 
through  all  the  rest  of  the  family. — What  have  we 
got  here? — 

Hastings.  My  dear  Charles  !  Let  me  congratu- 
late you  ! — The  most  fortunate  accident ! — Who 
do  you  think  is  just  alighted  ? 

Marlow.  Cannot  guess. 

Hastings.  Our  mistresses,  boy,  Miss  Hardcastle 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  323 

and  Miss  Neville.  Give  me  leaye  to  introduce 
Miss  Constance  Neville  to  your  acquaintance. 
Happening  to  dine  in  the  neighbourhood,  they 
called,  on  their  return  to  take  fresh  horses,  here. 
Miss  Hardcastle  has  just  stept  into  the  next  room, 
and  will  be  back  in  an  instant.  Wasn't  it  lucky  ? 
eh! 

Marlow  {aside).  I  have  just  been  mortified 
enough  of  all  conscience,  and  here  comes  some- 
thing to  complete  my  embarrassment. 

Hastings.  Well !  but  wasn't  it  the  most  for- 
tunate thing  in  the  world  ? 

Marlow.   Oh!    yes.      Very   fortunate — a   most 

joyful  encounter But  our  dresses,  George,  you 

know,  are  in  disorder What  if  we  should  post- 
pone the  happiness  till  to-morrow  ? To-morrow 

at  her  own  house It  will  be  every  bit  as  con- 
venient  And  rather  more  respectful To- 
morrow let  it  be.  {Offering  to  go. 
Miss  Neville.  By  no  means,  sir.  Your  cere- 
mony will  displease  her.  The  disorder  of  your 
dress  will  shew  the  ardour  of  your  impatience. 
Besides,  she  knows  you  are  in  the  house,  and  will 
permit  you  to  see  her. 

Marlow.  O  !  the  devil  !  how  shall  I  support  it  ? 
Hem  !  hem  !  Hastings,  you  must  not  go.  You 
are  to  assist  me,  you  know.  I  shall  be  con- 
foundedly ridiculous.  Yet,  hang  it  !  I'll  take 
courage.      Hem  ! 

Hastings.  Pshaw,  man  !  it's  but  the  first  plunge, 
and  all's  over.      She's  but  a  woman,  you  know. 

Marlow.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I  dread 
most  to  encounter  ! 


i?6  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


Enter  Miss  Hardcastle,  as  relumed  from 
walking,  a  Bonnet,  &>c. 

Bastings  [introducing  them).  Miss  Plardcastle, 
Mr.  Marlow,  I'm  proud  of  bringing  two  persons 
of  such  merit  together,  that  only  want  to  know,  to 
esteem  each  other. 

Miss  Hard,  (aside.)  Now,  for  meeting  my 
modest  gentleman  with  a  demure  face,  and  quite 
in  his  own  manner.  (After  a  pause,  in  which  he 
appears  very  uneasy  and  disconcerted.)     I'm  glad 

of  your  safe  arrival,  sir I'm  told  you  had  some 

accidents  by  the  way. 

Marlow.  Only  a  few,  madam.  Yes,  we  had 
some.  Yes,  madam,  a  good  many  accidents,  but 
should  be  sorry — madam — or  rather  glad  of  any 
accidents  —  that  are  so  agreeably  concluded. 
Hem! 

Hastings  (To  him).  You  never  spoke  better  in 
your  whole  life.  Keep  it  up,  and  I'll  insure  you  the 
victory. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  afraid  you  flatter,  sir.  You 
that  have  seen  so  much  of  the  finest  company  can 
find  little  entertainment  in  an  obscure  corner  of 
the  country. 

Marlow  (Gathering courage).  I  have  lived,  in- 
deed, in  the  world,  madam  ;  but  I  have  kept  very 
little  company.  I  have  been  but  an  observer 
upon  life,  madam,  while  others  were  enjoying  it. 

Miss  Neville.  But  that,  I  am  told,  is  the  way  to 
enjoy  it  at  last. 

Hastings  (To  him).    Cicero  never  spoke  better, 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  327 

Once  more,  and  you  are  confirmed  in  assurance 
for  ever. 

Marlow  { To  him).  Hem  !  Stand  by  me,  then, 
and  when  I'm  down,  throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  set 
me  up  again. 

Miss  Rani.  An  observer,  like  you,  upon  life, 
were,  I  fear,  disagreeably  employed,  since  you 
must  have  had  much  more  to  censure  than  to  ap- 
prove. 

Marlow.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  always 
willing  to  be  amused.  The  folly  of  most  people  is 
rather  an  object  of  mirth  than  uneasiness. 

Hastings  {To  him);  Bravo,  bravo.  Never 
spoke  so  well  in  your  whole  life.  Well,  Miss 
Hardcastle,  I  see  that  you  and  Mr.  Marlow  are 
going  to  be  very  good  company.  I  believe  our 
being  here  will  but  embarrass  the  interview. 

Marlow.  Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Hastings.  We 
like  your  company  of  all  things.  {To  him.)  Zounds! 
George,  sure  you  -won't  go?   How  can  you  leave  us? 

Hastings.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil  conversa- 
tion, so  we'll  retire  to  the  next  room.  {To  him.) 
You  don't  consider,  man,  that  we  are  to  manage  a 
little  tUe-a-tete  of  our  own.  [Exeunt. 

Miss  Hard.  {After  a  pause.)  But  you  have  not 
been  wholly  an  observer,  I  presume,  sir.  The 
ladies,  I  should  hope,  have  employed  some  part  of 
your  addresses. 

Marlow  {Relapsing into  timidity).  Pardon  me, 
madam,  I— I — I— as  yet  have  studied— only— to 
— deserve  them. 

Miss  Hard.  And  that  some  say  is  the  very  worst 
way  to  obtain  them. 


328  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Marlow.  Perhaps  so,  madam.  But  I  love  to 
converse  only  with  the  more  grave  and  sensible 
part  of  the  sex. But  I'm  afraid  I  grow  tiresome. 

Miss  Hard.  Not  at  all,  sir ;  there  is  nothing  I 
like  so  much  as  grave  conversation  myself :  I 
could  hear  it  for  ever.  Indeed,  I  have  often  been 
surprised  how  a  man  of  sentiment  could  ever  ad- 
mire those  light  airy  pleasures,  where  nothing 
reaches  the  heart. 

Marlow.  It's — a  disease — of  the  mind,  madam. 
In  the  variety  of  tastes  there  must  be  some  who, 
wanting  a  relish  for — um-a-um. 

Miss  Hard.  I  understand  you,  sir.  There 
must  be  some,  who,  wanting  a  relish  for  refined 
pleasures,  pretend  to  despise  what  they  are  in- 
capable of  tasting. 

Marlow.  My  meaning,  madam,  but  infinitely 
better  expressed.  And  I  can't  help  observing — 
a 

Miss  Hard,  {aside.)  Who  could  ever  suppose 
this  fellow  impudent  upon  some  occasions.  [To 
Aim.)     You  were  going  to  observe,  sir 

Marlow.  I  was  observing,  madam 1  protest, 

madam,  I  forget  what  I  was  going  to  observe. 

Miss  Hard,  (aside. )  I  vow  and  so  do  I.  ( To 
him.)  You  were  observing,  sir,  that  in  this  age  of 
hypocrisy — something  about  hypocrisy,  sir. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  In  this  age  of  hypocrisy, 
there  are  few  who  upon  strict  enquiry  do  not — a — ■ 
a — a 

Miss  Hard.   I  understand  you  perfectly,  sir. 

Marlow  (aside).  Egad  !  and  that's  more  than 
I  du  myself! 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  32g 

Miss  Hard.  You  mean  that  in  this  hypocritical 
age  there  are  few  that  do  not  condemn  in  public 
what  they  practise  in  private,  and  think  they  pay 
every  debt  to  virtue  when  they  praise  it. 

Marlow.  True,  madam  ;  those  who  have  most 
virtue  in  their  mouths,  have  least  of  it  in  their 
bosoms.     But  I'm  sure  I  tire  you,  madam. 

Miss  Hard.  Not  in  the  least,  sir  ;  there's  some- 
thing so  agreeable  and  spirited  in  your  manner, 
such  life  and  force pi'ay,  sir,  go  on. 

Marlow,    Yes,    madam.     I   was  saying that 

there   are  some  occasions when  a  total  want 

of  courage,  madam,  destroys  all  the and  puts 

us upon  a a a ■ 

Miss  Hard.  I  agree  with  you  entirely,  a  want  of 
courage  upon  some  occasions  assumes  the  appear- 
ance of  ignorance,  and  betrays  us  when  we  most 
want  to  excel.     I  beg  you'll  proceed. 

Mar-low.     Yes,     madam.       Morally    speaking, 

madam But  I  see  Miss  Neville  expecting  us  in 

the  next  room.     I  would  not  intrude  for  the  world. 

Miss  Hard.  I  protest,  sir,  I  never  was  more 
agreeably  entertained  in  all  my  life.     Pray  go  on. 

Marlow.     Yes,    madam.      I   was But    she 

beckons  us  to  join  her.     Madam,  shall  I  do  myself 
the  honour  to  attend  you  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Well  then,  I'll  follow. 

Marlow  (aside).  This  pretty  smooth  dialogue 
has  done  for  me.  [Exit. 

Miss  IIardcastle  sola. 

Miss  Hard.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Was  there  ever  such 
a  sober  sentimental  interview?  I'm  certain  he 
scarce  looked  in  my  face  the  whole  time.     Yet  the 


330  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

fellow,  but  for  his  unacccountable  bashfulness,  is 
pretty  well,  too.  He  has  good  sense,  but  then  so 
buried  in  his  fears,  that  it  fatigues  one  more  than 
ignorance.  If  I  could  teach  him  a  little  confidence, 
it  would  be  doing  somebody  that  I  know  of  a  piece 
of  service.  But  who  is  that  somebody? — that, 
faith,  is  a  question  I  can  scarce  answer.         [Exit. 

Enter  Tony  and  Miss  NEVILLE,  followed  by  Mrs. 
Hardcastle  and  Hastings. 

Tony.  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  cousin  Con  ? 
I  wonder  you're  not  ashamed  to  be  so  very  en- 
gaging. 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak  to 
one's  own  relations,  and  not  be  to  blame. 

Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  relation 

you  want  to  make  me,   though  ;  but  it  won't  do. 

I  tell  you,  cousin  Con,  it  won't  do,  so  I  beg  you'll 

keep  your  distance,  I  want  no  nearer  relationship. 

[She  follows  coquetting  him  to  the  back  scene. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well !  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings,  you 
are  very  entertaining.  There's  nothing  in  the 
world  I  love  to  talk  of  so  much  as  London,  and 
the  fashions,  though  I  was  never  there  myself. 

Hastings.  Never  there  !  You  amaze  me  !  From 
your  air  and  manner,  I  concluded  you  had  been 
bred  all  your  life  either  at  Ranelagh,  St.  James's, 
or  Tower  Wharf. 

Mrs.  Hard.  O !  sir,  you're  only  pleased  to  say 
so.  We  country  persons  can  have  no  manner  at 
all.  I'm  in  love  with  the  town,  and  that  serves  to 
raise  me  above  some  of  our  neighbouring  rustics  ; 
but  who  can  have  a  manner,  that  has  never  seen 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  33I 

the  Pantheon,  the  Grotto  Gardens,  the  Borough, 
and  such  places  where  the  nobility  chiefly  resort  ? 
All  I  can  do  is  to  enjoy  London  at  second-hand. 
I  take  care  to  know  every  tete-H-tete  from  the 
Scandalous  Magazine,1  and  have  all  the  fashions 
as  they  come  out,  in  a  letter  from  the  two  Miss 
Rickets  of  Crooked  Lane.  Pray  how  do  you 
like  this  head,  Mr.  Hastings? 

Hastings.  Extremely  elegant  and  degagee,  upon 
my  word,  madam.  Your  friseur  is  a  Frenchman, 
I  suppose  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  protest,  I  dressed  it  myself  from 
a  print  in  the  Ladies'  Memorandum-book  for  the 
last  year. 

Hastings.  Indeed.  Such  a  head  in  a  side-box, 
at  the  Play-house,  would  draw  as  many  gazers  as 
my  Lady  Mayoress  at  a  City  Ball. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began, 
there  is  no  such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  woman  ; 
so  one  must  dress  a  little  particular  or  one  may 
escape  in  the  crowd. 

Hastings.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case, 
madam,  in  any  dress  !    {Bowing.) 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yet,  what  signifies  my  dressing 
when  I  have  such  a  piece  of  antiquity  by  my  side 
as  Mr.  Hardcastle  :  all  I  can  say  will  never  argue 
clown  a  single  button  from  his  clothes.  I  have 
often  wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  great  flaxen  wig, 
and  where  he  was  bald,  to  plaster  it  over  like  my 
Lord  Pately,  with  powder. 

[1  An  allusion  to  the  bust-portraits  called  "Tete-a-Tetes," 
published,  with  satirical  biographies,  in  the  Town  and 
Country  Magazine.  Lady  Waldegrave  and  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester  came  early  in  the  series.] 


332  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Hastings.  You  are  right,  madam  ;  for,  as  among 
the  ladies  there  are  none  ugly,  so  among  the  men 
there  are  none  old. 

Mrs.  Hard.  But  what  do  you  think  his  answer 
was  ?  Why,  with  his  usual  Gothic  vivacity,  he  said 
I  only  wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  wig  to  convert 
it  into  a  tele  for  my  own  wearing  ! 

Hastings.  Intolerable  !  At  your  age  you  may 
wear  what  you  please,  and  it  must  become  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do  you 
take  to  be  the  most  fashionable  age  about  town  ? 

Hastings.  Some  time  ago  forty  was  all  the  mode  ; 
but  I'm  told  the  ladies  intend  to  bring  up  fifty  for 
the  ensuing  winter. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Seriously.  Then  I  shall  be  too 
young  for  the  fashion  ! 

Hastings.  No  lady  begins  now  to  put  on  jewels 
till  she's  past  forty.  For  instance,  miss  there,  in 
a  polite  circle,  would  be  considered  as  a  child,  as 
a  mere  maker  of  samplers. 

Mrs.  Hard.  And  yet  Mrs.  Niece  thinks  herself 
as  much  a  woman,  and  is  as  fond  of  jewels  as  the 
oldest  of  us  all. 

Hastings.  Your  niece,  is  she  ?  And  that  young 
gentleman,  a  brother  of  yours,  I  should  presume  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  son,  sir.  They  are  contracted 
to  each  other.  Observe  their  little  sports.  They 
fall  in  and  out  ten  times  a  day,  as  if  they  were  man 
and  wife  already.  {To  them.)  Well,  Tony,  child, 
what  soft  things  are  you  saying  to  your  cousin 
Constance,  this  evening  ? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things  ;  but 
that  it's  very  hard  to  be  followed  about  so.    Kcod  ! 


SUE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  3,j 

I've  not  a  place  in  the  house  now  that's  left  to  my- 
self but  the  stable. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Never  mind  him,  Con,  my  dear. 
He's  in  another  story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Neville.  There's  something  generous  in  my 
consin's  manner.  He  falls  out  before  faces  to  be 
forgiven  in  private. 

Tony.  That's  a  damned  confounded -crack. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ah  !  he's  a  sly  one.  Don't  you 
think  they're  like  each  other  about  the  mouth, 
Mr.  Hastings  ?  The  Blenkinsop  mouth  to  a  T. 
They're  of  a  size,  too.  Back  to  back,  my  pretties, 
that  Mr.  Hastings  may  see  you.1     Come,  Tony. 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I  tell  you. 

[Measuring. 

Miss  Neville.  O  lud  !  he  has  almost  cracked  my 
head. 

Mrs.  Hard.  O,  the  monster  !  For  shame,  Tony. 
You  a  man,  and  behave  so  ! 

Tony.  If  I'm  a  man,  let  me  have  my  fortin. 
Ecod  !  I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all  that  I'm 
to  get  for  the  pains  I  have  taken  in  your  education  ? 
I  that  have  rocked  you  in  your  cradle,  and  fed  that 
pretty  mouth  with  a  spoon  !  Did  not  I  work  that 
waistcoat  to  make  you  genteel?  Did  not  I  pre- 
scribe for  you  every  day,  and  weep  while  the  receipt 
was  operating? 

Tony.  Ecod  !  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for  you 

have  been  dosing  me  ever  since  I  was  born.     I 

have  gone  through  every  receipt  in  the  complete 

housewife  ten  times  over ;  and  you  have  thoughts 

[1  Cf.  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  1766,  i,  158-9.] 


33+  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

of  coursing  me  through  Quincy1  next  spring.  Eut, 
ecod  !  I  tell  you,  I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no 
longer. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good,  viper  ? 
Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good? 

Tony.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  and  my  good  alone, 
then.  Snubbing  this  way  when  I'm  in  spirits. 
If  I'm  to  have  any  good,  let  it  come  of  itself; 
not  to  keep  dinging  it,  dinging  it  into  one  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  That's  false  ;  I  never  see  you  when 
you're  in  spirits.  No,  Tony,  you  then  go  to  the 
alehouse  or  kennel.  I'm  never  to  be  delighted 
with  your  agreeable,  wild  notes,  unfeeling  monster  ! 

Tony.  Ecod  !  Mamma,  your  own  notes  are 
the  wildest  of  the  two. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  ever  the  like  ?  But  I  see  he 
he  wants  to  break  my  heart,  I  see  he  does. 

Hastings.  Dear  Madam,  permit  me  to  lecture 
the  young  gentleman  a  little.  I'm  certain  I  can 
persuade  him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well  !  I  must  retire.  Come, 
Constance,  my  love.  You  see,  Mr  Hastings, 
the  wretchedness  of  my  situation.  Was  ever  poor 
woman  so  plagued  with  a  dear,  sweet,  pretty, 
provoking,  undutiful  boy. 
[Exeunt  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.     Tony. 
Tony  {singing).   There  was  a  young  man  riding 
by,  and  fain  would  have  his  will.      A'atig  do  didlo 

['  John  Quincy,  M.D.  (d.  1723)  author  of  a  highly  popular 
Complete  English  Dispensatory,  a  fourteenth  edition  of 
which  was  published  in  1772.] 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  335 

dee.  Don't  mind  her.  Let  her  cry.  It's  the  com- 
fort of  her  heart.  I  have  seen  her  and  sister  cry  over 
a  book  for  an  hour  together,  and  they  said,  they 
liked  the  book  thebetterthe  more  it  made  them  cry. 

Hastings.  Then  you're  no  friend  to  the  ladies, 
I  find,  my  pretty  young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  That's  as  I  find  'urn. 

Hastings.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother's  choosing, 
I  dare  answer  !  And  yet  she  appears  to  me  a 
pretty,  well-tempered  girl. 

Tony.  That's  because  you  don't  know  her  as 
well  as  I.  Ecod  !  I  know  every  inch  about  her  ; 
and  there's  not  a  more  bitter  cantankerous  toad 
in  all  Christendom  ! 

Hastings,  [aside).  Pretty  encouragement,  this, 
for  a  lover  ! 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of  that. 
She  has  as  many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a  thicket,  or  a 
colt  the  first  day's  breaking. 

Hastings,  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and 
silent ! 

Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  when  she's 
with  her  playmates  she's  as  loud  as  a  hog  in  a 
gate. 

Hastings.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about  her 
that  charms  me. 

Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she 
kicks  up,  and  you're  flung  in  a  ditch. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a  little 
beauty. — Yes,  you  must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony.  Bandbox  !  She's  all  a  made  up  thing, 
mun.  Ah  !  could  you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer  of 
these  parts,  you  might  then  talk  of  beauty.      Ecod, 


g36  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

she  has  two  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  and  cheeks  as 
broad  and  red  as  a  pulpit  cushion.  She'd  make 
two  of  she. 

Hastings.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that 
would  take  this  bitter  bargain  off  your  hands? 

Tony.  Anon. 

Hastings.  Would  you  thank  him  that  would 
take  Miss  Neville,  and  leave  you  to  happiness  and 
your  dear  Betsy  ? 

Tony.  Ay ;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend,  for 
who  would  take  her? 

Hastings.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I'll 
engage  to  whip  her  off  to  France,  and  you  shall 
never  hear  more  of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you  !  Ecod,  I  will,  to  the  last 
drop  of  my  blood.  I'll  clap  a  pair  of  horses  to 
your  chaise  that  shall  trundle  you  off  in  a  twinkling, 
and  may  be  get  you  a  part  of  her  fortin  besides,  in 
jewels,  that  you  little  dream  of. 

Hastings.  My  dear  'Squire,  this  looks  like  a  lad 
of  spirit. 

Tony.  Come  along  then,  and  you  shall  see 
more  of  my  spirit  before  you  have  done  with  me. 

[Singing. 
We  are  the  boys 
That  fears  no  noise 
Where  the  thundering  cannons  roar. 

[Exeunt. 

END   OF   THE  SECOND  ACT. 


SUE  STOOPS   TO   COAQUER.  337 


ACT    III. 

Enter  Hardcasti.e  solus. 

Hardcastle. 

5sj|HAT  could  my  old  friend  Sir  Charles 
y§  mean  by  recommending  his  son  as  the 
modestest  young  man  in  town?  Tome 
he  appears  the  most  impudent  piece  of 
brass  that  ever  spoke  with  a  tongue.  He  has 
taken  possession  of  the  easy  chair  by  the  fireside 
already.  He  took  off  his  boots  in  the  parlour, 
and  desired  me  to  see  them  taken  care  of.  I'm 
desirous  to  know  how  his  impudence  affects  my 
daughter. — She  will  certainly  be  shocked  at  it. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE  plainly  dressed. 

Hard.  Well,  my  Kate,  I  see  you  have  changed 
your  dress  as  I  bid  you  ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  there 
was  no  great  occasion. 

Miss  Hard.  I  find  such  a  pleasure,  sir,  in 
obeying  your  commands,  that  I  take  care  to  observe 
them  without  ever  debating  their  propriety. 

Hard.  And  yet,  Kate,  I  sometimes  give  you 
some  cause,  particularly  when  I  recommended  my 
modest  gentleman  to  you  as  a  lover  to-day. 

Miss  Hard.  You  taught  me  to  expect  something 
extraordinary,  and  I  find  the  original  exceeds  the 
description  1 

z 


338  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Hard.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life  !  He 
has  quite  confounded  all  my  faculties  ! 

Miss  Hard.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it  :  And 
a  man  of  the  world,  too  ! 

Hard.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad, — what  a 
fool  was  I,  to  think  a  young  man  could  learn 
modesty  by  travelling.  He  might  as  soon  learn 
wit  at  a  masquerade. 

Miss  Hard.   It  seems  all  natural  to  him. 

Hard.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  company 
and  a  French  dancing-master. 

Miss  Hard.  Sure,  you  mistake,  papa  !  a  French 
dancing-master  could  never  have  taught  him  that 
timid  look, — that  awkward  address, — that  bashful 
manner 

Hard.  Whose  look?  whose  manner?  child  ! 

Miss  Hard.  Mr.  Marlow's  :  his  mauvaise  /ionic; 
his  timidity  struck  me  at  the  first  sight. 

Hard.  Then  your  first  sight  deceived  you  ;  for 
I  think  him  one  of  the  most  brazen  first  sights  that 
ever  astonished  my  senses  ! 

Miss  Hard.  Sure,  sir,  you  rally  !  I  never  saw 
anyone  so  modest. 

Hard.  And  can  you  be  serious  !  I  never  saw 
such  a  bouncing  swaggering  puppy  since  I  was 
born.     Bully  Dawson '  was  but  a  fool  to  him. 

Miss  Hard.  Surprising  !  He  met  me  with  a 
respectful  bow,  a  stammering  voice,  and  a  look 
fixed  on  the  ground. 

Hard.   He  met  me  with  a  loud  voice,  a  lordly 

[l  A  Whitefriars  bully  and  gutter-blood.  He  is  immor- 
tal i/cd  in  Spectator,  No.  2,  as  having  been  kicked  in  a 
cofl'ec-house  by  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.] 


SUE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  339 

air,  and  a  familiarity  that  made  my  blood  freeze 
again. 

Miss  Hani.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence  and 
respect ;  censured  the  manners  of  the  age  ;  admired 
the  prudence  of  girls  that  never  laughed  ;  tired  me 
with  apologies  for  being  tiresome  ;  then  left  the 
room  with  a  bow,  and,  madam,  I  would  not  for 
the  world  detain  you. 

Hard.  He  spoke  to  me  as  if  he  knew  me  all  his 
life  before.  Asked  twenty  questions,  and  never 
waited  for  an  answer.  Interrupted  my  best  remarks 
with  some  silly  pun,  and  when  I  was  in  my  best 
story  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  and  Prince 
Eugene,  he  asked  if  I  had  not  a  good  hand  at 
making  punch.  Yes,  Kate,  he  asked  your  father 
if  he  was  a  maker  of  punch  ! 

Miss  Hard.  One  of  us  must  certainly  be  mis- 
taken. 

Hard.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shown  himself,  I'm 
determined  he  shall  never  have  my  consent. 

Miss  Hard.  And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing  I  take 
him,  he  shall  never  have  mine. 

Hard.  In  one  thing  then  we  are  agreed — to 
reject  him. 

Miss  Hard.  Yes.  But  upon  conditions.  For 
if  you  should  find  him  less  impudent,  and  I  more 
presuming  ;  if  you  find  him  more  respectful,  and  I 

more  importunate 1  don't  know the  fellow 

is  well  enough  for  a  man — Certainly  we  don't 
meet  many  such  at  a  horse  race  in  the  country. 

Hard.  If  we  should  find  him  so I3ut  that's 

impossible.  The  first  appearance  has  done  my 
business.      I'm  seldom  deceived  in  that. 


34o  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Miss  Hard.  And  yet  there  may  be  many  good 
qualities  under  that  first  appearance. 

Hard.  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow's  outside 
to  her  taste,  she  then  sets  about  guessing  the  rest 
of  his  furniture.  With  her,  a  smooth  face  stands 
for  good  sense,  and  a  genteel  figure  for  every 
virtue. 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  a  conversation  begun 
with  a  compliment  to  my  good  sense  won't  end 
with  a  sneer  at  my  understanding  ? 

Hard.  Pardon  me,  Kate.  But  if  young  Mr. 
brazen  can  find  the  art  of  reconciling  contradic- 
tions, he  may  please  us  both,  perhaps. 

Miss  Hard.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be  mistaken, 
what  if  we  go  to  make  further  discoveries  ? 

Hard.  Agreed.  But  depend  on't  I'm  in  the 
right. 

Miss  Hard.  And  depend  on't  I'm  not  much  in 
the  wrong.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Tony  running  in  with  a  casket. 
Tony.   Ecod  !     I   have   got   them.     Here  they 
are.     My  Cousin  Con's  necklaces,  bobs  and  all. 
My  mother  shan't  cheat  the  poor  souls  out  of  their 
fortin  neither.     O  !  my  genus,  is  that  you  ? 

Enter  Hastings. 
Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you  managed 
with  your  mother  ?  I  hope  you  have  amused  her 
with  pretending  love  for  your  cousin,  and  that  you 
are  willing  to  be  reconciled  at  last  ?  Our  horses 
will  lie  refreshed  in  a  short  time,  and  we  shall  soon 
be  ready  to  set  off. 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  341 

Tony.  And  here's  something  to  bear  your 
charges  by  the  way.  (Giving  the  casket.)  Your 
sweetheart's  jewels.  Keep  them,  and  hang  those, 
I  say,  that  would  rob  you  of  one  of  them  ! 

Hastings.  But  how  have  you  procured  them 
from  your  mother  ? 

Tony.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no 
fibs.  I  procured  them  by  the  rule  of  thumb.  If 
I  had  not  a  key  to  every  drawer  in  mother's 
bureau,  how  could  I  go  to  the  alehouse  so  often  as 
I  do  ?  An  honest  man  may  rob  himself  of  his  own 
at  any  time. 

Hastings.  Thousands  do  it  every  clay.  But  to 
be  plain  with  you  ;  Miss  Neville  is  endeavouring 
to  procure  them  from  her  aunt  this  very  instant. 
If  she  succeeds,  it  will  be  the  most  delicate  way  at 
least  of  obtaining  them. 

Tony.  Well,  keep  them,  till  you  know  how  it 
will  be.  But  I  know  how  it  will  be  well  enough, 
she'd  as  soon  part  with  the  only  sound  tooth  in  her 
head  ! 

Hastings.  But  I  dread  the  effects  of  her  resent- 
ment, when  she  finds  she  has  lost  them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment,  leave 
me  to  manage  that.  I  don't  value  her  resentment 
the  bounce  of  a  cracker.  Zounds  !  here  they  are  ! 
Morrice,  Prance  !  [Exit  Hastings. 

Tony,  Mrs.  IIardcastle,  Miss  Neville. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze  me. 
Such  a  girl  as  you  want  jewels?  It  will  be  time 
enough  for  jewels,  my  dear,  twenty  years  hence, 
when  your  beauty  begins  to  want  repairs. 


342  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Miss  Neville.  But  what  will  repair  beauty  at 
forty,  will  certainly  improve  it  at  twenty,  madam. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of  none. 
That  natural  blush  is  beyond  a  thousand  orna- 
ments. Besides,  child,  jewels  are  quite  out  at 
present.  Don't  you  see  half  the  ladies  of  our 
acquaintance,  my  lady  Kill-daylight,  and  Mrs. 
Crump,  and  the  rest  of  them,  carry  their  jewels  to 
town,  and  bring  nothing  but  paste  and  marcasites1 
back  ? 

A/iss  Neville.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but 
somebody  that  shall  be  nameless  would  like  me 
best  with  all  my  little  finery  about  me? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear,  and 
then  see,  if  with  such  a  pair  of  eyes,  you  want 
any  better  sparklers.  What  do  you  think,  Tony, 
my  dear,  does  your  cousin  Con.  want  any  jewels, 
in  your  eyes,  to  set  off  her  beauty  ? 

loiiy.  That's  as  thereafter  may  be. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew  how 
it  would  oblige  me. 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  parcel  of  old-fashioned  rose  and 
table-cut 2  things.  They  would  make  you  look  like 
the  court  of  king  Solomon  at  a  puppet-show. 
Besides,  I  believe  I  can't  readily  come  at  them. 
They  may  be  missing,  for  aught  I  know  to  the 
contrary. 

Tony  {apart  to  Mrs.  Hard.).  Then  why  don't 
you  tell  her  so  at  once,  as  she's  so  longing  for 
them.     Tell  her  they're  lost.     It's  the  only  way 

f1  A  mineral  often  mistaken  for  gold  and  silver  ore  ] 
'2  Table-cut  stones  have  flat  upper  surfaces.     They  are 
only  cut  in  angles  at  the  sides.] 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  343 

to  quiet  her.      Say  they're  lost,   and   call   me   to 
bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hard,  {apart  to  TONY.)  You  know,  my 
clear,  I'm  only  keeping  them  for  you.  So  if  I  say 
they're  gone,  you'll  bear  me  witness,  will  you? 
lie!  he!  he! 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Ecod  !  I'll  say  I  saw 
them  taken  out  with  my  own  eyes. 

Miss  Neville.  I  desire  them  but  for  a  clay, 
madam.  Just  to  be  permitted  to  show  them  as 
relics,  and  then  they  may  be  locked  up  again. 

Mrs.  Hard.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  clear 
Constance,  if  I  could  find  them,  you  should  have 
them.  They're  missing,  I  assure  you.  Lost,  for 
aught  I  know  ;  but  we  must  have  patience  wher- 
ever they  are. 

Miss  Neville.  I'll  not  believe  it ;  this  is  but  a 
shallow  pretence  to  deny  me.  I  know  they're  too 
valuable  to  be  so  slightly  kept,  and  as  you  are  to 
answer  for  the  loss. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Constance.  If 
they  be  lost,  I  must  restore  an  equivalent.  But 
my  son  knows  they  are  missing,  and  not  to  be 
found. 

Tony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.  They  are 
missing,  and  not  to  be  found,  I'll  take  my  oath 
on't ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  You  must  learn  resignation,  my 
dear ;  for  though  we  lose  our  fortune,  yet  we 
should  not  lose  our  patience.  See  me,  how  calm 
I  am  ! 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  people  are  generally  calm  at 
the  misfortunes  of  others. 


344  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Now,  I  wonder  a  girl  of  your  good 
sense  should  waste  a  thought  upon  such  trumpery. 
We  shall  soon  find  them  ;  and,  in  the  meantime, 
you  shall  make  use  of  my  garnets  till  your  jewels 
be  found. 

Miss  Neville.   I  detest  garnets  ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  The  most  becoming  things  in  the 
world  to  set  off  a  clear  complexion.  You  have 
often  seen  how  well  they  look  upon  me.  You 
shall  have  them.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  I  dislike  them  of  all  thines.  You 
shan't  stir. — Was  ever  any  tiling  so  provoking  to 
mislay  my  own  jewels,  and  force  me  to  wear  her 
trumpery. 

7'o)iy.  Don't  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you  the 
garnets,  take  what  you  can  get.  The  jewels  are 
your  own  already.  I  have  stolen  them  out  of  her 
bureau,  and  she  does  not  know  it.  Fly  to  your 
spark,  he'll  tell  you  more  of  the  matter.  Leave 
me  to  manage  her. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  cousin  ! 

Tony.  Vanish.  She's  here,  and  has  missed 
them  already.  Zounds  !  how  she  fidgets  and  spits 
about  like  a  Catharine  wheel. 

Enter  Mrs.  IIardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Confusion  !  thieves  !  robbers  ! 
We  are  cheated,  plundered,  broke  open,  undone  ! 

Tony.  What's  the  matter,  what's  the  matter, 
mamma  ?  I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  any  of 
the  good  family  ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  We  are  robbed.  My  bureau  has 
been  broke  open,  the  jewels  taken  out,  and  I'm 
undone  ! 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  545 

Tony.  Oh  !  is  that  all  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  By  the 
laws,  I  never  saw  it  better  acted  in  my  life.  Ecod, 
I  thought  you  was  ruined  in  earnest,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  Why,  boy,  I  am  ruined  in  earnest. 
My  bureau  has  been  broke  open,  and  all  taken 
away. 

Tony.  Stick  to  that ;  ha,  ha,  ha  !  stick  to  that. 
I'll  bear  witness,  you  know,  call  me  to  bear 
witness. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that's  pre- 
cious, the  jewels  are  gone,  and  I  shall. be  ruined 
lor  ever. 

Tony.  Sure  I  know  they're  gone,  and  I  am  to 
say  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  dearest  Tony,  but  hear  me. 
They're  gone,  I  say. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make  me  for 
to  laugh,  ha  !  ha  !  I  know  who  took  them  well 
enough,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Airs.  Hard.  Was  there  ever  such  a  blockhead, 
that  can't  tell  the  difference  between  jest  and 
earnest.     I  tell  you  I'm  not  in  jest,  booby  ! 

Tony.  That's  right,  that's  right  :  You  must  be 
in  a  bitter  passion,  and  then  nobody  will  suspect 
either  of  us.      I'll  bear  witness  that  they  are  gone. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  there  ever  such  a  cross-grained 
brute,  that  won't  hear  me  !  Can  you  bear  witness 
that  you're  no  better  than  a  fool  ?  Was  ever  poor 
woman  so  beset  with  fools  on  one  hand,  and 
thieves  on  the  other? 

Tony.   I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Airs.  Hard.  Bear  witness  again,  you  blockhead, 
you,  and  I'll  turn  you  out  of  the  room  directly. 


34G  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

My  poor  niece,  what  will  become  olherl  Do  you 
laugh,  you  unfeeling  brute,  as  if  you  enjoyed  my 
distress? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Do  you  insult  me,  monster?  I'll 
teach  you  to  vex  your  mother,  I  will  ! 

Tony.   I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

{He  runs  off,  she  follows  hint. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE  and  Maid. 

Miss  Hard.  What  an  unaccountable  creature  is 
that  brother  of  mine,  to  send  them  to  the  house 
as  an  inn,  ha  !  ha  !  I  don't  wonder  at  his  im- 
pudence. 

Maid.  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the  young 
gentleman  as  you  passed  by  in  your  present  dress, 
asked  me  if  you  were  the  barmaid?  He  mistook 
you  for  the  barmaid,  madam  ! 

Miss  Hard.  Did  he  ?  Then  as  I  live  I'm  re- 
solved to  keep  up  the  delusion.  Tell  me,  Pimple, 
how  do  you  like  my  present  dress?  Don't  you 
think  I  look  something  like  Cherry  in  the  Beaux' 
Stratagem?1 

Maid.  It's  the  dress,  madam,  that  every  lady 
wears  in  the  country,  but  when  she  visits  or 
receives  company. 

Miss  Hard.  And  are  you  sure  he  does  not 
remember  my  face  or  person? 

Maid.  Certain  of  it  ! 

['  By  George  Farquhar.     "  Cherry  "  is  the  daughter  o« 

Boniface,  the  landlord  of  the  inn  at  Lichfield.  The  part 
was  originally  played  by  Steele's  friend  Mrs.  Bicknell.l 


SHE  STOOrS   TO  CONQUER.  347 

Miss  Herd.  I  vow,  I  thought  so  ;  for  though  we 
spoke  for  some  time  together,  yet  his  fears  were 
such,  that  he  never  once  looked  up  during  the 
interview.  Indeed,  if  he  had,  my  bonnet  would 
have  kept  him  from  seeing  me. 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keeping  him 
in  his  mistake  ? 

Miss  Hard.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  be  seen, 
and  that  is  no  small  advantage  to  a  girl  who 
brings  her  face  to  market.  Then  I  shall  perhaps 
make  an  acquaintance,  and  that's  no  small  victory 
gained  over  one  who  never  addresses  any  but  the 
wildest  of  her  sex.  But  my  chief  aim  is  to  take 
my  gentleman  off  his  guard,  and  like  an  invisible 
champion  of  romance  examine  the  giant's  force 
before  I  offer  to  combat. 

Maid.  But  you  are  sure  you  can  act  your  part, 
and  disguise  your  voice,  so  that  he  may  mistake 
that,  as  he  has  already  mistaken  your  person  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Never  fear  me.     I  think  I  have 

got  the  true  bar  cant. — Did  your  honour  call  ? 

Attend  the  Lion  there.—: — Pipes  and  tobacco  for 
the  Angel. — The  Lamb  has  been  outrageous  this 
half  hour  ! 

Maid.   It  will  do,  madam.     But  he's  here. 

[Exit  Maid. 

Enter  Marlow. 
Mario-v.  What  a  bawling  in  every  part  of  the 
house  ;  I  have  scarce  a  moment's  repose.  If  I  go 
to  the  best  room,  there  I  find  my  host  and  his 
story.  If  I  fly  to  the  gallery,  there  we  have  my 
hostess  with  her  curtsey  down  to  the  ground.     I 


345  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

have  at  last  got  a  moment  to  myself,  and  now  for 
recollection.  L  Walks  and  muses. 

Miss  Hard.  Did  you  call,  sir?  did  your  honour 
call? 

Marlcw  {musing).  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle,  she's 
too  grave  and  sentimental  for  me. 

Miss  Hard.  Did  your  honour  call  ? 
[She  still  places  herself  before  him,  he  turning  away. 

Marlow.  No,  child  !  {Musing.)  Besides  from 
the  glimpse  I  had  of  her,  I  think  she  squints. 

Miss  Hard.   I'm  sure,  sir,  I  heard  the  bell  ring. 

Marlow.  No,  no!  {Musing.)  I  have  pleased 
my  father,  however,  by  coming  down,  and  I'll  to- 
morrow please  myself  by  returning. 

[Taking  out  his  tablets,  and  perusing. 

Miss  Hard.  Perhaps  the  other  gentleman  called, 
sir? 

Marlow.  I  tell  you,  no. 

Miss  Hard.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  sir.  We 
have  such  a  parcel  of  servants. 

Marlow.  No,  no,  I  tell  you.  {Looks  full  in  her 
face.)     Yes,  child,  I  think  I  did  call.     I  wanted 

1   wanted 1  vow,    child,    you   are   vastly 

handsome  ! 

Miss  Hard.   O  In,  sir,  you'll  make  one  ashamed. 

Marine.  Never  saw  a  more  sprightly  malicious 
eye.  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  did  call.  Have  you 
got  any  of  your — a — what  d'ye  call  it  in  the  house  ? 

Miss  Hard.  No,  sir,  we  have  been  out  of  that 
these  ten  days. 

Marlow.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  I  find,  to 
very  little  purpose.  Suppose  I  should  call  for  a 
taste,  just  by  way  of  trial,  of  the  nectar  of  your 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  349 

lips  ;    perhaps  I  might  be  disappointed  in   that, 
too  ! 

Miss  Hard.  Nectar !  nectar !  that's  a  liquor 
there's  no  call  for  in  these  parts.  French,  I 
suppose.     We  keep  no  French  wines  here,  sir. 

Marlow.  Of  true  English  growth,  I  assure 
you. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  it's  odd  I  should  not  know  it. 
We  brew  all  sorts  of  wines  in  this  house,  and  I 
have  lived  here  these  eighteen  years. 

Marlow.  Eighteen  years  !  Whyonewould  think, 
child,  you  kept  the  bar  before  you  were  born.  How 
old  are  you  ? 

Miss  Hard.  O  !  sir,  I  must  not  tell  my  age. 
They  say  women  and  music  should  never  be 
dated. 

Marlow.  To  guess  at  this  distance,  you  can't 
be  much  above  forty.  {Approaching.)  Yet  nearer 
I  don't  think  so  much.  (Approaching.)  Lycom- 
ing close  to  some  women  they  look  younger  still ; 
but  when  we  come  very  close  indeed  {Attempting  to 
kiss  her. ) 

Miss  Hard.  Pray,  sir,  keep  your  distance.  One 
would  think  you  wanted  to  know  one's  age  as  they 
do  horses,  by  mark  of  mouth. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  extremely 
ill.  If  you  keep  me  at  this  distance,  how  is  it 
possible  you  and  I  can  be  ever  acquainted  ? 

Miss  Had.  And  who  wants  to  be  acquainted 
with  you?  I  want  no  such  acquaintance,  not  I. 
I'm  sure  you  did  not  treat  Miss  Hardcastle  that 
was  here  awhile  ago  in  this  obstropalous  manner. 
I'll  warrant  me,  before  her  you  looked  dashed,  and 


35o  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

kept  bowing  to  the  ground,  and  talked,  for  all  the 
world,  as  if  you  was  before  a  justice  of  peace. 

Marlow  (aside).  Egad  !  she  has  hit  it,  sure 
enough.  (To  her.)  In  awe  of  her,  child  ?  Ha  ! 
ha  !  ha  !  A  mere  awkward,  squinting  thing,  no, 
no  !  I  find  you  don't  know  me.  I  laughed,  and 
rallied  her  a  little  ;  but  I  was  unwilling  to  be  too 
severe.     No,  I  could  not  be  too  severe,  curse  me  ! 

Miss  Hard.  O  !  then,  sir,  you  are  a  favourite, 
I  find,  among  the  ladies  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favourite.  And 
yet,  hang  me,  I  don't  see  what  they  find  in  me  to 
follow.  At  the  Ladies'  Club  in  town  1  I'm  called 
their  agreeable  Rattle.  Rattle,  child,  is  not  my 
real  name,  but  one  I'm  known  by.  My  name  is 
Solomons.  Mr.  Solomons,  my  dear,  at  your 
service.     ( Offering  to  salute  her. ) 

Miss  Hard.  Hold,  sir ;  you  were  introducing 
me  to  your  club,  not  to  yourself.  And  you're  so 
great  a  favourite  there  you  say  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear.  There's  Mrs.  Mantrap, 
Lady  Betty  Blackleg,  the  Countess  of  Sligo,  Mrs. 
Longhorns,  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin  2  and  your 
humble  servant,  keep  up  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  it's  a  very  merry  place,  I 
suppose. 

[l  See  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  1770,  pp.  414-5, 
which  gives  the  rules  of  the  so-called  Female  Coterie  in 
Albemarle  Street  here  intended,  together  with  a  list  of  the 
members.  Horace  Walpole,  his  friend  Conway,  the  Walde- 
graves,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Darner,  C.  J.  Fox,  Sehvyn  and  many 
persons  of  quality  belonged  to  it.] 

[-  This  is  said  to  have  been  meant  for  Miss  Rachael 
Lloyd,  an  elderly  member  of  the  Female  Coterie.] 


^Jr'E  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  351 

Marlow.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  suppers,  wine, 
and  old  women  can  make  us. 

Miss  Hard.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle,  ha  ! 
ha  !  ha  ! 

Marlow  (aside).  Egad  !  I  don't  quite  like  this 
chit.  She  looks  knowing,  methinks.  You  laugh, 
child  ! 

Miss  Hard.  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  what  time 
they  all  have  for  minding  their  work  or  their  family. 

Marlow  (aside).  All's  well,  she  don't  laugh  at 
me.     (To  her.)     Do  you  ever  work,  child? 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  sure.  There's  not  a  screen  or 
a  quilt  in  the  whole  house  but  what  can  bear 
witness  to  that. 

Marlow.  Odso  !  Then  you  must  show  me  your 
embroidery.  I  embroider  and  draw  patterns  myself 
a  little.  If  you  want  a  judge  of  your  work  you  must 
apply  to  me.  [Seizing  her  hand. 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  but  the  colours  don't  look  well 
by  candle  light.     You  shall  see  all  in  the  morning. 

[Struggling. 

Marlon'.  And  why  not  now,  my  angel  ?    Such 

beauty  fires  beyond  the  power  of  resistance. 

Pshaw  !  the  father  here  !  My  old  luck  :  I  never 
nicked  seven  that  I  did  not  throw  ames-ace l  three 
times  following.  [Exit  Marlow. 

Enter  Hardcastle,  who  stands  in  surprise. 
Hard.    So,    madam  !    So   I    find  this  is   your 

[1  Ames  ace  =  ambs-ace,  i.e.  a  cast  of  double  ace.  "  And 
Ames-Ace  loses  what  kind  Sixes  won  "—says  a  poem  attri- 
buted to  Prior.] 


35=  PLATS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

modest  lover.  This  is  your  humble  admirer  that 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  only  adored 
at  humble  distance.  Kate,  Kate,  art  thou  not 
ashamed  to  deceive  your  father  so? 

Miss  Hard.  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa,  but  he's 
still  the  modest  man  I  first  took  him  for,  you'll  be 
convinced  of  it  as  well  as  I. 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  I  believe  his 
impudence  is  infectious  !  Didn't  I  sec  him  seize 
your  hand?  Didn't  I  see  him  haul  you  about  like 
a  milkmaid  ?  and  now  you  talk  of  his  respect  and 
his  modesty,  forsooth  ! 

Jl/iss  Hard.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you  of  his 
modesty,  that  he  has  only  the  faults  that  will  pass 
off  with  time,  and  the  virtues  that  will  improve 
with  age,  I  hope  you'll  forgive  him. 

Hard.  The  girl  would  actually  make  one  run 
mad  !  I  tell  you  I'll  not  be  convinced.  I  am 
convinced.  He  has  scarcely  been  three  hours  in 
the  house,  and  he  has  already  encroached  on  all 
my  prerogatives.  You  may  like  his  impudence, 
and  call  it  modesty.  But  my  son-in-law,  madam, 
must  have  very  different  qualifications. 

Miss  Hard.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to  convince 
you. 

Hard.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time,  for  I 
have  thoughts  of  turning  him  out  this  very  hour. 

Miss  Hard.  Give  me  that  hour  then,  and  I  hope 
to  satisfy  you. 

Hard.  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be  then.  But  I'll 
have  no  trilling  with  your  father.  All  fair  and 
open,  do  you  mind  me? 

Miss  Hard.   I  hope,  sir,  you  have  ever  found 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER. 


353 


that  I  considered  your  commands  as  my  pride  ;  for 
your  kindness  is  such,  that  my  duty  as  yet  has  been 
inclination.  \Exeunt. 


END   OF   THE   THIRD   ACT. 


A  A 


354  PLATS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


ACT   IV. 
Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings. 

]0U  surprise  me  !  Sir  Charles  Marlow 
expected  here  this  night?  Where  have 
you  had  your  information  ? 
Miss  Neville.  You  may  depend  upon 
it.  I  just  saw  his  letter  to  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in 
which  he  tells  him  he  intends  setting  out  a  few 
hours  after  his  son. 

Hastings.  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must  be 
completed  before  he  arrives.  He  knows  me  ;  and 
should  he  find  me  here,  would  discover  my  name, 
and  perhaps  my  designs,  to  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe. 

Hastings.  Yes,  yes.  I  have  sent  them  to 
Marlow,  who  keeps  the  keys  of  our  baggage.  In 
the  meantime,  I'll  go  to  prepare  matters  for  our 
elopement.  I  have  had  the  Squire's  promise  of  a 
fresh  pair  of  horses  ;  and,  if  I  should  not  see  him 
again,  will  write  him  further  directions.         [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  Well  !  success  attend  you.  In 
the  meantime,  I'll  go  amuse  my  aunt  with  the  old 
pretence  of  a  violent  passion  for  my  cousin.  [Exit. 

Enter  Marli  )\V,  followed  by  a  Servant. 
Marlow,   I  wonder  what  Hastings  could  mean 
by  sending  me  so  valuable  a  thing  as  a  casket  to 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  355 

keep  for  him,  when  he  knows  the  only  place  I 
have  is  the  seat  of  a  post-coach  at  an  Inn-door. 
Have  you  deposited  the  casket  with  the  landlady, 
as  I  ordered  you  ?  I  lave  you  put  it  into  her  own 
hands  ? 

Servant.  Yes,  your  honour. 

JSIarlow.   She  said  she'd  keep  it  safe,  did  she? 

Servant.  Yes,  she  said  she'd  keep  it  safe  enough  ; 
she  asked  me  how  I  came  by  it  ?  and  she  said  she 
had  a  great  mind  to  make  me  give  an  account  of 
myself.  {Exit  Servant. 

Marlow.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  They're  safe,  however. 
What  an  unaccountable  set  of  beings  have  we  got 
amongst  !  This  little  barmaid  though  runs  in  my 
head  most  strangely,  and  drives  out  the  absurdities 
of  all  the  rest  of  the  family.  She's  mine,  she 
must  be  mine,  or  I'm  greatly  mistaken  ! 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  Bless  me  !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  her 
that  I  intended  to  prepare  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden.     Marlow  here,  and  in  spirits  too  ! 

Marlow.  Give  me  joy,  George  !  Crown  me, 
shadow  me  with  laurels  !  Well,  George,  after  all, 
we  modest  fellows  don't  want  for  success  among 
the  women. 

Hastings.  Some  women,  you  mean.  But  what 
success  has  your  honour's  modesty  been  crowned 
with  now,  that  it  grows  so  insolent  upon  us  ? 

Marlow.  Didn't  you  see  the  tempting,  brisk, 
lovely  little  thing  that  runs  about  the  house  with 
a  bunch  of  keys  to  its  girdle  ? 

Hastings.  Well  !  and  what  then  ? 


356  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Marlow.  She's  mine,    you   rogue,    you.     Such 

fire,    such   motion,   such   eyes,   such   lips but 

egad  !  she  would  not  let  me  kiss  them  though. 

Hastings.  But  are  you  sure,  so  very  sure  of  her  ? 

Mariano.  Why,  man,  she  talked  of  showing  me 
her  work  above-stairs,  and  I  am  to  improve  the 
pattern. 

Hastings.  But  how  can  you,  Charles,  go  about 
to  rob  a  woman  of  her  honour  ? 

Marlow.  Pshaw !  pshaw  !  we  all  know  the 
honour  of  the  barmaid  of  an  inn.  I  don't  intend 
to  rob  her,  take  my  word  for  it,  there's  nothing  in 
this  house,  I  shan't  honestly  pay  for  ! 

Hastings.   I  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 

Marlow.  And  if  she  has,  I  should  be  the  last 
man  in  the  world  that  would  attempt  to  corrupt  it. 

Hastings.  You  have  taken  care,  I  hope,  of  the 
casket  I  sent  you  lock  up  ?     It's  in  safety  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  yes.  It's  safe  enough.  I  have 
taken  care  of  it.  But  how  could  you  think  the  seat 
of  a  post-coach  at  an  Inn-door  a  place  of  safety  ? 
Ah  !  numbskull  !  I  have  taken  better  precautions 
for  you  than  you  did  for  yourself. 1  have 

Hastings.   What  ! 

Marlow.  I  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to  keep 
for  you. 

Hastings.  To  the  landlady  ! 

Marloiv.  The  landlady. 

Hastings.  You  did  ! 

Marlow.  I  did.  She's  to  be  answerable  for  its 
forth-coming,  you  know. 

Hastings.  Yes,  she'll  bring  it  forth  with  a  wit- 
ness. 


SHE  STOOPS    TO  CONQUER.  337 

Marlaw.  Wasn't  I  right  ?  I  believe  you'll  allow 
that  I  acted  prudently  upon  this  occasion  ? 

Hastings  {aside).  He  must  not  see  my  uneasi- 
ness. 

Marlow.  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted,  though, 
methinks.     Sure  nothing  has  happened  ? 

Hastings.  No,  nothing.  Never  was  in  better 
spirits  in  all  my  life.  And  so  you  left  it  with  the 
landlady,  who,  no  doubt,  very  readily  undertook 
the  charge  ? 

Marlow.  Rather  too  readily.  For  she  not  only- 
kept  the  casket,  but,  through  her  great  precaution, 
was  going  to  keep  the  messenger  too.    Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hastings.  He  !  he  !  he  !   They're  safe,  however. 

Marlow.  As  a  guinea  in  a  miser's  purse. 

Hastings  (aside).  So  now  all  hopes  of  fortune 
are  at  an  end,  and  we  must  set  off  without  it.  ( To 
him.)  Well,  Charles,  I'll  leave  you  to  your  medi- 
tations on  the  pretty  barmaid,  and,  he  !  he  !  he  ! 
may  you  be  as  successful  for  yourself  as  you  have 
been  for  me.  [Exit. 

Marlow.  Thank  ye,  George  !  I  ask  no  more. 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Enter  Hardcastle. 

Hard  I  no  longer  know  my  own  house.  It's 
turned  all  topsy-turvy.  His  servants  have  got 
drunk  already.  I'll  bear  it  no  longer,  and  yet, 
from  my  respect  for  his  father,  I'll  be  calm.  (To 
him.)  Mr.  Marlow,  your  servant.  I'm  your  very 
humble  servant.  [Bowing  low. 

Marlow.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.  (Aside.) 
What's  to  be  the  wonder  now  ? 


358  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Hard.  I  believe,  sir,  you  must  be  sensible,  sir, 
that  no  man  alive  ought  to  be  more  welcome  than 
your  father's  son,  sir.     I  hope  you  think  so? 

Marlow.  I  do,  from  my  soul,  sir.  I  don't  want 
much  entreaty.  I  generally  make  my  father's  son 
welcome  wherever  he  goes. 

Hard.  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  sir.  But 
though  I  say  nothing  to  your  own  conduct,  that  of 
your  servants  is  insufferable.  Their  manner  of 
drinking  is  setting  a  very  bad  example  in  this 
house,  I  assure  you. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  my  very  good  sir,  that's  no 
fault  of  mine.  If  they  don't,  drink  as  they  ought 
they  are  to  blame.  I  ordered  them  not  to  spare 
the  cellar,  I  did,  I  assure  you.  ( To  the  side  scene.) 
Here,  let  one  of  my  servants  come  up.  (To  him.) 
My  positive  directions  were,  that  as  I  did  not  drink 
myself,  they  should  make  up  for  my  deficiencies 
below. 

Hard.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for  what  they 
do  !    I'm  satisfied  ! 

Marlow.  They  had,  I  assure  you.  You  shall 
hear  from  one  of  themselves. 

Enter  Servant,  drunk. 

Marlow.  You,  Jeremy  !  Come  forward,  sirrah  ! 
What  were  my  orders?  Were  you  not  told  to 
drink  freely,  and  call  for  what  you  thought  fit,  for 
the  good  of  the  house  ? 

Hard,   (aside.)     I  begin  to  lose  my  patience. 

Jeremy.  Please  your  honour,  liberty  and  Fleet 
Street  for  ever  !  Though  I'm  but  a  servant,  I'm 
as  good  as  another  man.      I'll  drink  for  no  man 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  359 

before  supper,  sir,  dammy  !  Good  liquor  will  sit 
upon  a  good  supper,  but  a  good  supper  will  not  sit 
upon hiccup upon  my  conscience,  sir. 

Marlow.  You  see,  my  old  friend,  the  fellow  is 
as  drunk  as  he  can  possibly  be.  I  don't  know 
what  you'd  have  more,  unless  you'd  have  the  poor 
devil  soused  in  a  beer-barrel. 

Hard.  Zounds  !  He'll  drive  me  distracted  if  I 
contain  myself  any  longer.  Mr.  Marlow.  Sir  ;  I 
have  submitted  to  your  insolence  for  more  than 
four  hours,  and  I  see  no  likelihood  of  its  coming  to 
an  end.  I'm  now  resolved  to  be  master  here,  sir, 
and  I  desire  that  you  and  your  drunken  pack  may 
leave  my  house  directly. 

Marlow.  Leave  your  house  ! — Sure,  you  jest,  my 
good  friend  !  What,  when  I'm  doing  what  I  can 
to  please  you  ! 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  don't  please  me ;  so 
I  desire  you'll  leave  my  house. 

Marlow.  Sure,  you  cannot  be  serious  !  At  this 
time  of  night,  and  such  a  night !  You  only  mean 
to  banter  me  ! 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I'm  serious  ;  and,  now 
that  my  passions  are  roused,  I  say  this  house  is 
mine,  sir ;  this  house  is  mine,  and  I  command  you 
to  leave  it  directly. 

Marlow.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  A  puddle  in  a  storm. 
I  shan't  stir  a  step,  I  assure  you.  {In  a  serious  tone. ) 
This  your  house,  fellow  !  It's  my  house.  This  is 
my  house.  Mine,  while  I  choose  to  stay.  What 
right  have  you  to  bid  me  leave  this  house,  sir  i* 
I  never  met  with  such  impudence,  curse  me,  never 
in  my  whole  life  before  ! 


360  PL.lVS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Hard.  Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did  !  To 
come  to  my  house,  to  call  for  what  he  likes,  to 
turn  me  out  of  my  own  chair,  to  insult  the  family, 
to  order  his  servants  to  get  drunk,  and  then  to  tell 
me  This  house  is  mine,  sir.  By  all  that's  impudent, 
it  makes  me  laugh.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Tray,  sir, 
{Bantering.)  as  you  take  the  house,  what  think  you 
of  taking  the  rest  of  the  furniture  ?  There's  a  pair 
of  silver  candlesticks,  and  there's  a  fire-screen,  and 
here's  a  pair  of  brazen-nosed  bellows,  perhaps  you 
7nay  take  a  fancy  to  them  ? 

Mai-low.  Bring  me  your  bill,  sir,  bring  me  your 
bill,  and  let's  make  no  more  words  about  it. 

Hard.  There  are  a  set  of  prints,  too.  What 
think  you  of  the  Rake's  Progress  l  for  your  own 
apartment  ? 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say  ;  and  I'll 
leave  you  and  your  infernal  house  directly. 

Hard.  Then  there's  a  mahogany  table,  that  you 
may  see  your  own  face  in. 

Marlow.   My  bill,  I  say. 

Hard.  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair,  for  your  own 
particular  slumbers,  after  a  hearty  meal. 

Marlow.  Zounds  !  bring  me  my  bill,  I  say,  and 
let's  hear  no  more  on't. 

Hard.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your 
father's  letter  to  me,  I  was  taught  to  expect  a  well- 
bred  modest  man,  as  a  visitor  here,  but  now  I  find 
him  no  better  than  a  coxcomb  and  a  bully  ;  but  he 
will  be  down  here  presently,  and  shall  hear  more 
of  it.  [Exit. 

Marlow.  How's  this  !  Sure,  I  have  not  mistaken 
L1   By  Hogarth.] 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  COXQUER.  3*1 

the  house?  Everything  looks  like  an  inn.  The 
servants  cry  "coming."  The  attendance  is  awk- 
ward ;  the  barmaid,  too,  to  attend  us.  But  she's 
here,  and  will  further  inform  me.  fc Whither  so  fast, 
child  ?    A  word  with  you. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Miss  Hard.  Let  it  be  short,  then.  I'm  in  a 
hurry. — {Aside.)  I  believe  he  begins  to  find  out  his 
mistake,  but  it's  too  soon  quite  to  undeceive  him. 

Marlow.  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  question. 
What  are  you,  and  what  may  your  business  in  this 
house  be  ? 

Miss  Hard.  A  relation  of  the  family,  sir. 

Marlow.   What?     A  poor  relation  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  sir.  A  poor  relation  appointed 
to  keep  the  keys,  and  to  see  that  the  guests  want 
nothing  in  my  power  to  give  them. 

Marlow.  That  is,  you  act  as  the  barmaid  of  this 
inn. 

Miss  Hard.  Inn  !  O  law  !— What  brought  that 
in  your  head?  One  of  the  best  families  in  the 
county  keep  an  inn  !  I  la,  ha,  ha,  old  Mr.  Hard- 
castle's  house  an  inn  ! 

Marlow.  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  !  Is  this  house 
Mr.  Hardcastle's  house,  child  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  sure.    Whose  else  should  it  be. 

Marlow.  So  then  all's  out,  and  I  have  been 
damnably  imposed  on.  O,  confound  my  stupid 
head,  I  shall  be  laughed  at  over  the  whole  town. 
I  shall  be  stuck  up  in  caricature  in  all  the  print- 
shops.     The  Dullissimo  Macaroni.1     To  mistake 

C1  At  this  date  the  print-shops,  and  especially  Matthew 


362  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

this  house  of  all  others  for  an  inn,  and  my  father's 
old  friend  for  an  inn-keeper  !  What  a  swaggering 
puppy  must  he  take  me  for.  What  a  silly  puppy 
do  I  find  myself.  There  again,  may  I  be  hanged, 
my  dear,  but  I  mistook  you  for  the  barmaid  ! 

Miss  Hard.  Dear  me  !  dear  me  !  I'm  sure 
there's  nothing  in  my  bekavour  to  put  me  upon  a 
level  with  one  of  that  stamp. 

Marlow.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But  I 
was  in  for  a  list  of  blunders,  and  could  not  help 
making  you  a  subscriber.  My  stupidity  saw  every- 
thing the  wrong  way.  I  mistook  your  assiduity 
for  assurance,  and  your  simplicity  for  allurement. 
But  it's  over — this  house  I  no  more  show  my  face 
in  ! 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  done  nothing  to 
disoblige  you.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  to 
affront  any  gentleman  who  has  been  so  polite,  and 
said  so  many  civil  things  to  me.  I'm  sure  I  should 
be  sorry  {Pretending  to  cry.')  if  he  left  the  family 
upon  my  account.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry 
people  said  anything  amiss,  since  I  have  no  fortune 
but  my  character. 

Marlow  [aside).  By  heaven,  she  weeps.  This 
is  the  first  mark  of  tenderness  I  ever  had  from  a 
modest  woman,  and  it  touches  me.  {To  her.) 
Excuse  me,  my  lovely  girl,  you  are  the  only  part 

Darly's  in  the  Strand,  were  filled  with  engravings,  generally 
satirizing  well-known  individuals  and  having  titles  of  this 
kind,  e.g.,  The  Lilly  Macaroni  (Lord  Ancrum),  Tlie South- 
•wark  Macaroni  (Mr.  Thrale),  The  Martial  Macaroni 
(Goldsmith's  friend,  Ensign  Horneck)  and  so  forth.  See 
note  to  p.  128,  vol.  i,  on  the  Macaronies.] 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER.  363 

of  the  family  I  leave  with  reluctance.  But  to  be 
plain  with  you,  the  difference  of  our  birth,  fortune 
and  education,  make  an  honourable  connexion 
impossible  ;  and  I  can  never  harbour  a  thought  of 
seducing  simplicity  that  trusted  in  my  honour,  or 
bringing  ruin  upon  one  whose  only  fault  was  being 
too  lovely. 

Miss  Hard,  (aside.)  Generous  man  !  I  now 
begin  to  admire  him.  (To  him.)  But  I'm  sure 
my  family  is  as  good  as  Miss  Hardcastle's,  and 
though  I'm  poor,  that's  no  great  misfortune  to  a 
contented  mind,  and,  until  this  moment,  I  never 
thought  that  it  was  bad  to  want  fortune. 

Marlow.  And  why  now,  my  pretty  simplicity  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  distance 
from  one,  that  if  I  had  a  thousand  pound  I  would 
give  it  all  to. 

Marlow  (aside).  This  simplicity  bewitches  me, 
so  that  if  I  stay  I'm  undone.  I  must  make  one 
bold  effort,  and  leave  her.  ( To  Iter. )  Your  par- 
tiality in  my  favour,  my  clear,  touches  me  most 
sensibly,  and  were  I  to  live  for  myself  alone,  I 
could  easily  fix  my  choice.  But  I  owe  too  much 
to  the  opinion  of  the  world,  too  much  to  the  autho- 
rity of  a  father,  so  that— I  can  scarcely  speak  it — 
it  affects  me  !    Farewell !  [Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  I  never  knew  half  his  merit  till 
now.  He  shall  not  go,  if  I  have  power  or  art  to 
detain  him.  I'll  still  preserve  the  character  in 
which  I  stooped  to  conquer,  but  will  undeceive  my 
papa,  who,  perhaps,  may  laugh  him  out  of  his 
resolution.  \E.\  it. 


364  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Enter  Tony,  Miss  Neville. 

Tony.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves  the  next 
time.  I  have  done  my  duty.  She  has  got  the 
jewels  again,  that's  a  sure  thing  ;  but  she  believes 
it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the  servants. 

Miss  Neville.  But,  my  dear  cousin,  sure,  you 
won't  forsake  us  in  this  distress.  If  she  in  the 
least  suspects  that  I  am  going  off,  I  shall  certainly 
be  locked  up,  or  sent  to  my  aunt  Pedigree's,  which 
is  ten  times  worse. 

Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are  damned 
bad  things.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  got  you 
a  pair  of  horses  that  will  fly  like  Whistlejacket, 
and  I'm  sure  you  can't  say  but  I  have  courted  you 
nicely  before  her  face.  Here  she  comes,  we  must 
court  a  bit  or  two  more,  for  fear  she  should  suspect 
us.  [They  retire,  and  seem  to  fondle. 

Enter  Mrs.   Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  I  was  greatly  fluttered,  to  be 
sure.  But  my  son  tells  me  it  was  all  a  mistake  of 
the  servants.  I  shan't  be  easy,  however,  till  they 
are  fairly  married,  and  then  let  her  keep  her  own 
fortune.  But  what  do  I  see  !  Fondling  together, 
as  I'm  alive  !  I  never  saw  Tony  so  sprightly 
before.  Ah  !  have  I  caught  you,  my  pretty  dovts  i 
What,  billing,  exchanging  stolen  glances,  and 
broken  murmurs  !    Ah  ! 

Tony.  As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we  grumble  a 
little  now  and  then,  to  be  sure.  But  there's  no 
love  lost  between  us. 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  365 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony,  upon  the 
flame,  only  to  make  it  burn  brighter. 

Miss  Neville.  Cousin  Tony  promises  to  give  us 
more  of  his  company  at  home.  Indeed,  he  shan't 
leave  us  any  more.  It  won't  leave  us,  cousin  Tony, 
will  it  ? 

Tony.  O !  it's  a  pretty  creature.  No,  I'd  sooner 
leave  my  horse  in  a  pound,  than  leave  you  when 
you  smile  upon  one  so.  Your  laugh  makes  you  so 
becoming. 

Miss  Neville.  Agreeable  cousin  !  Who  can  help 
admiring  that  natural  humour,  that  pleasant, 
broad,  red,  thoughtless,  {Patting  his  cheek.)  ah! 
it's  a  bold  face. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pretty  innocence  ! 

Tony.  I'm  sure  I  always  loved  cousin  Con's 
hazle  eyes,  and  her  pretty  long  fingers,  that  she 
twists  this  way  and  that,  over  the  haspicholls,1 
like  a  parcel  of  bobbins. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ah,  he  would  charm  the  bird  from 
the  tree.  I  was  never  so  happy  before.  My  boy 
takes  after  his  father,  poor  Mr.  Lumpkin,  exactly. 
The  jewels,  my  dear  Con,  shall  be  your's  incon- 
tinently. You  shall  have  them.  Isn't  he  a  sweet 
boy,  my  dear  ?  You  shall  be  married  to-morrow, 
and  we'll  put  off  the  rest  of  his  education,  like  Dr. 
Drowsy's  sermons,  to  a  fitter  opportunity. 

Enter  Diggory. 
Diggory.  Where's  the  'Squire?    I  have  got  a 
letter  for  your  worship. 

[1  Goldsmith  does  not  seem  to  have  invented  this  delight- 
ful perversion,  for  Gray   uses  it  in  a  letter  to  his  friend 


366  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Tony.  Give  it  to  my  mamma.  She  reads  all  my 
letters  first. 

Diggory.  I  had  orders  to  deliver  it  into  your 
own  hands. 

Tony.  Who  does  it  come  from  ? 

Diggory.  Your  worship  mun  ask  that  of  the 
letter  itself. 

Tony.  I  could  wish  to  know,  though.  ( Turning 
the  letter,  and  gazing  on  it.) 

Miss  Neville  {aside).  Undone,  undone  !  A  letter 
to  him  from  Hastings.  I  know  the  hand.  If  my 
aunt  sees  it  we  are  ruined  for  ever.  I'll  keep  her 
employed  a  little  if  I  can.  ( To  Mrs.  Hardcastle.  ) 
But  I  have  not  told  you,  madam,  of  my  cousin's 
smart  answer  just  now  to  Mr.  Marlow.  We  so 
laughed — you  must  know,  madam — this  way  a 
little,  for  he  must  not  hear  us.     ( They  confer.) 

Tony  {Still gazing).  A  damned  cramp  piece  of 
penmanship,  as  ever  I  saw  in  my  life.  I  can  read 
your  print-hand  very  well.  But  here  there  are 
such  handles,  and  shanks,  and  dashes,  that  one 
can  scarce  tell  the  head  from  the  tail.  To  Anthony 
Lumpkin,  Esquire.  It's  very  odd,  I  can  read  the 
outside  of  my  letters,  where  my  own  name  is,  well 
enough.  But  when  I  come  to  open  it,  it's  all — 
buzz.  That's  hard,  very  hard  ;  for  the  inside  of 
the  letter  is  always  the  cream  of  the  correspondence. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  la  !  ha  !  ha  !  Very  well,  very 
well.  And  so  my  son  was  too  hard  for  the  philo- 
sopher ! 

Miss  Neville.  Yes,  madam  ;  but  you  must  hear 

Chute  of  1746.  He  has  "not  seen  the  face  of  a  Haspical,  since, 
lie  came  home."     Probably  it  was  a  popular  vulgarism.] 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  3O7 

the  rest,  madam.  A  little  more  this  way,  or  he 
may  hear  us.  You'll  hear  how  he  puzzled  him 
again. 

Mrs.  Hard.  He  seems  strangely  puzzled  now 
himself,  methinks. 

Tony  (Still  gazing).  A  damned  up  and  down 
hand,  as  if  it  was  disguised  in  liquor.  [Reading.) 
Dear  Sir.  Ay,  that's  that.  Then  there's  an  M, 
and  a  T,  and  an  S,  but  whether  the  next  be  an 
izzard  or  an  R,  confound  me,  I  cannot  tell ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  What's  that,  my  dear  ?  Can  I 
give  you  any  assistance? 

Miss  Neville.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it.  No- 
body reads  a  cramp  hand  better  than  I.  (Twitch- 
ingtlieletterfrom  her.)  Do  you  know  who  it  is  from? 

Tony.  Can't  tell,  except  from  Dick  Ginger  the 
feeder.1 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  so  it  is.  (Pretending  to  read. ) 
Dear  'Squire,  Hoping  that  you're  in  health,  as  I 
am  at  this  present.  The  gentlemen  of  the  Shake- 
bag  club  has  cut  the  gentlemen  of  Goose-green 
quite  out  of  feather.  The  odds — um — odd  battle 
— um — long  fighting — um,  here,  here,  it's  all  about 
cocks,  and  fighting ;  it's  of  no  consequence,  here, 
put  it  up,   put  it  up.       [Thrusting  the  crumpled 

letter  upo?i  hi  in. 

Tony.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it's  of  all  the  con- 
sequence in  the  world  !  I  would  not  lose  the  rest 
of  it  for  a  guinea  !  Here,  mother,  do  you  make  it 
out  ?    Of  no  consequence  !      [Giving  Mrs.  Hard- 

castle  the  letter. 

[l  That  is — the  cock-feeder.  Compare  the  Vicar  0/ 
Wakefield,  1766,  i,  57.] 


368  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Mrs.  Hard.  How's  this  !  {Reads.)  Dear 'Squire, 
I'm  now  waiting  for  Miss  Neville,  with  a  post- 
chaise  and  pair,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  but 
I  find  my  horses  yet  unable  to  perform  the  journey. 
I  expect  you'll  assist  us  with  a  pair  of  fresh  horses, 
as  you  promised.  Dispatch  is  necessary,  as  the 
hag  (ay,  the  hag)  your  mother,  will  otherwise  sus- 
pect us.  Yours,  Hastings.  Grant  me  patience. 
I  shall  run  distracted  !     My  rage  chokes  me. 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  madam,  you'll  suspend 
your  resentment  for  a  few  moments,  and  not  im- 
pute to  me  any  impertinence,  or  sinister  design 
that  belongs  to  another. 

Mrs.  Hard.  {Curtseyingvcrylow.)  Fine  spoken, 
madam,  you  are  most  miraculously  polite  and 
engaging,  and  quite  the  very  pink  of  courtesy  and 
circumspection,  madam.  {Changing  her  tone.) 
And  you,  you  great  ill-fashioned  oaf,  with  scarce 
sense  enough  to  keep  your  mouth  shut.  Were 
you  too  joined  against  me?  But  I'll  defeat  all 
your  plots  in  a  moment.  As  for  you,  madam, 
since  you  have  got  a  pair  of  fresh  horses  ready, 
it  would  be  cruel  to  disappoint  them.  So,  if  you 
please,  instead  of  running  away  with  your  spark, 
prepare,  this  very  moment,  to  run  off  with  me. 
Your  old  aunt  Pedigree  will  keep  you  secure,  I'll 
warrant  me.  You  too,  sir,  may  mount  your 
horse,  and  guard  us  upon  the  way.  Here,  Thomas, 
Roger,  Diggory,  I'll  show  you  that  I  wish  you 
better  than  you  do  yourselves.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  So  now  I'm  completely  ruined. 

Tony.   Ay,  that's  a  sure  thing. 

Miss  Neville.   What  better  could   be  expected 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  369 

from  being  connected  with  such  a  stupid  fool,  and 
after  all  the  nods  and  signs  I  made  him. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your  own 
cleverness,  and  not  my  stupidity,  that  did  your 
business.  You  were  so  nice  and  so  busy  with 
your  Shake-bags  and  Goose-greens,  that  I  thought 
you  could  never  be  making  believe. 

Enter  Hastings. 

Hastings.  So,  sir,  I  find  by  my  servant,  that 
you  have  shown  my  letter,  and  betrayed  us.  Was 
this  well  done,  young  gentleman  ? 

Tony.  Here's  another.  Ask  miss  there  who 
betrayed  you.  Ecod,  it  was  her  doing,  not 
mine. 

Enter  Mar  low. 

Marlow.  So  I  have  been  finely  used  here  among 
you.  Rendered  contemptible,  driven  into  ill 
manners,  despised,  insulted,  laughed  at. 

Tony.  Here's  another.  We  shall  have  old 
Bedlam  broke  loose  presently. 

Miss  Neville.  And  there,  sir,  is  the  gentleman 
to  whom  we  all  owe  every  obligation. 

Marlow.  What  can  I  say  to  him,  a  mere  boy, 
an  idiot,  whose  ignorance  and  age  are  a  protection. 

Hastings.  A  poor  contemptible  booby,  that 
would  but  disgrace  correction. 

Miss  Neville.  Yet  with  cunning  and  malice 
enough  to  make  himself  merry  with  all  our  em- 
barrassments. 

/fastings.  An  insensible  cub. 

Marlow.   Replete  with  tricks  and  mischief. 
b  n 


37o  PLAVS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Tony.  Baw  !  damme,  but  I'll  fight  you  both 
one  after  the  other, with  baskets. 

Marlow.  As  for  him,  lie's  below  resentment. 
But  your  conduct,  Mr.  Hastings,  requires  an  ex- 
planation. You  knew  of  my  mistakes,  yet  would 
not  undeceive  me. 

Hastings.  Tortured  as  I  am  with  my  own  dis- 
appointments, is  this  a  time  for  explanations  ?  It 
is  not  friendly,  Mr.  Marlow. 

Marlow.  But,  sir — ■ 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept  on 
your  mistake,  till  it  was  too  late  to  undeceive  you. 
Be  pacified. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  My  mistress  desires  you'll  get  ready 
immediately,  madam.  The  horses  are  putting  to. 
Your  hat  and  things  are  in  the  next  room.  We 
are  to  go  thirty  miles  before  morning. 

\Exit  Servant. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  well;  I'll  come  presently. 

Marlow  {To  Hastings).  Was  it  well  done,  sir, 
to  assist  in  rendering  me  ridiculous  ?  To  liang  me 
out  for  the  scorn  of  all  my  acquaintance  ?  Depend 
upon  it,  sir,  I  shall  expect  an  explanation. 

Hastings.  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  if  you're  upon 
that  subject,  to  deliver  what  I  entrusted  to  your- 
self, to  the  care  of  another,  sir  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Hastings.  Mr.  Marlow. 
Why  will  you  increase  my  distress  by  this  ground- 
less dispute  ?    I  implore,  I  entreat  you 


SHE  STOOTS   TO  CONQUER.  371 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Your  cloak,  madam.  My  mistress  is 
impatient. 

Miss  Neville.  I  come.  Pray  be  pacified.  If  I 
leave  you  thus,  I  shall  die  with  apprehension  ! 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Your  fan,  muff,  and  gloves,  madam. 
The  horses  are  waiting. 

Miss  Neville.  O,  Mr.  Marlovv  !  if  you  knew 
what  a  scene  of  constraint  and  ill-nature  lies 
before  me,  I'm  sure  it  would  convert  your  resent- 
ment into  pity. 

Marlow.  I'm  so  distracted  with  a  variety  of 
passions,  that  I  don't  know  what  I  do.  Forgive 
me,  madam.  George,  forgive  me.  You  know 
my  hasty  temper,  and  should  not  exasperate  it. 

Hastings.  The  torture  of  my  situation  is  my 
only  excuse. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if  you 
have  that  esteem  for  me  that  I  think,  that  I  am 
sure  you  have,  your  constancy  for  three  years  will 
but  increase  the  happiness  of  our  future  connec- 
tion.    If— 

Mrs.  Hard.  {Within.)  Miss  Neville.  Con- 
stance, why,  Constance,  I  say. 

Miss  Neville.  I'm  coming.  Well,  constancy. 
Remember,  constancy  is  the  word.  {Exit. 

Hastings.  My  heart  !  How  can  I  support  this  ! 
To  be  so  near  happiness,  and  such  happiness  ! 

Marlow  {To    Tony).      You    see    now,    young 


372  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

gentleman,  the  effects  of  your  folly.  What  might 
be  amusement  to  you,  is  here  disappointment,  and 
even  distress. 

Tony  {From  a  reverie).  Ecod,  I  have  hit  it.  It's 
here.  Your  hands.  Yours  and  yours,  my  poor  Sulky. 
My  boots  there,  ho  !  Meet  me  two  hours  hence  at 
the  bottom  of  the  garden  ;  and  if  you  don't  find 
Tony  Lumpkin  a  more  good-natur'd  fellow  than 
you  thought  for,  I'll  give  you  leave  to  take  my 
best  horse,  and  Bet  Bouncer  into  the  bargain  ! 
Come  along.     My  boots,  ho  !  [Exeunt. 


END   OF   THE   FOURTH   ACT. 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  373 


ACT  V. 

Scene. — Continues. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Servant. 

Hastings. 
OU  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Neville 
drive  off,  you  say? 

Servant.  Yes,  your  honour.  They 
went  off  in  a  post  coach,  and  the 
young  'Squire  went  on  horseback.  They're  thirty 
miles  off  by  this  time. 

Hastings.  Then  all  my  hopes  are  over. 
Servant.  Yes,  sir.     Old  Sir  Charles  is  arrived, 
lie  and  the  old  gentleman  of  the  house  have  been 
laughing  at  Mr.  Marlow's  mistake  this  half  hour. 
They  are  coming  this  way. 

Hastings.  Then  I  must  not  be  seen.  So  now 
to  my  fruitless  appointment  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden.     This  is  about  the  time.  [Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Charles  and  Hardcastle. 

Hard.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  The  peremptory  tone  in 
which  he  sent  forth  his  sublime  commands. 

Sir  Charles.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I  sup- 
pose he  treated  all  your  advances. 

Hard.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  something 
in  me  above  a  common  innkeeper,  too. 


371  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Sir  Charles.  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook  you  for 
an  uncommon  innkeeper,  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Hard.  Well,  I'm  in  too  good  spirits  to  think  of 
anything  but  joy.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  this  union 
of  our  families  will  make  our  personal  friendships 
hereditary  :  and  though  my  daughter's  fortune  is 
but  small 

Sir  Charles.  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of  fortune 
to  vie  ?  My  son  is  possessed  of  more  than  a  com- 
petence already,  and  can  want  nothing  but  a  good 
and  virtuous  girl  to  share  his  happiness  and  in- 
crease it.  If  they  like  each  other,  as  you  say  they 
do 

Hard.  If,  man  !  I  tell  you  they  do  like  each 
other.     My  daughter  as  good  as  told  me  so. 

Sir  Charles.  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter  them- 
selves, you  know. 

Hard.  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the  warmest 
manner  myself;  and  here  he  comes  to  put  you  out 
of  your  ifs,  I  warrant  him. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  I  come,  sir,  once  more,  to  ask  pardon 
for  my  strange  conduct.  I  can  scarce  reflect  on 
my  insolence  without  confusion. 

Hard.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle.  You  take  it  too 
gravely.  An  hour  or  two's  laughing  with  my 
daughter  will  set  all  to  rights  again.  She'll  never 
like  you  the  worse  for  it. 

Marlow.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of  her 
approbation. 

Hard.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr. 
Marlow  ;  if  I  am  not  deceived,  you  have  some- 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  375 

thing  more  than  approbation  thereabouts.     You 
take  me. 

Marlow.  Really,  sir,  I  have  not  that  happiness. 
Hard.  Come,  boy,  I'm  an  old  fellow,  and  know 
what's  what,  as  well  as  you  that  are  younger.     I 
know  what  has  past  between  you  ;  but  mum. 

Marlow.  Sure,  sir,  nothing  has  past  between 
us  but  the  most  profound  respect  on  my  side,  and 
the  most  distant  reserve  on  her's.  You  don't 
think,  sir,  that  my  impudence  has  been  past  upon 
all  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Hard.  Impudence  !  No,  I  don't  say  that— Not 
quite  impudence— Though  girls  like  to  be  played 
with,  and  rumpled  a  little  too,  sometimes.  But 
she  has  told  no  tales,  I  assure  you. 

Marlcnv.  I  never  gave  her  the  slightest  cause. 

Hard.  Well,  well,  I  like  modesty  in  its  place 
well  enough.  But  this  is  over-acting,  young 
gentleman.  You  may  be  open.  Your  father  and 
I  will  like  you  the  better  for  it. 

Marloiv.  May  I  die,  sir,  if  I  ever 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  she  don't  dislike  you  ;  and  as 
I'm  sure  you  like  her 


Marlow.  Dear  sir — I  protest,  sir 

Hard.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  be 
joined  as  fast  as  the  parson  can  tie  you. 

Marlcnv.  But  hear  me,  sir 

Hard.  Your  father  approves  the  match,  I  ad- 
mire it,  every  moment's  delay  will  be  doing  mis- 
chief, so 

Marlow.  But  why  won't  you  hear  me  ?  By  all 
that's  just  and  true,  I  never  gave  Miss  Hardcastle 
the  slightest  mark  of  my  attachment,  or  even  the 


376  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

most  distant  hint  to  suspect  me  of  affection.  We 
had  but  one  interview,  and  that  was  formal, 
modest,  and  uninteresting. 

Hard,  (aside.)  This  fellow's  formal  modest 
impudence  is  beyond  bearing. 

Sir  Charles.  And  you  never  grasped  her  hand, 
or  made  any  protestations  ! 

Marlow.  As  heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came  down 
in  obedience  to  your  commands.  I  saw  the  lady 
without  emotion,  and  parted  without  reluctance. 
I  hope  you'll  exact  no  further  proofs  of  my  duty, 
nor  prevent  me  from  leaving  a  house  in  which  I 
suffer  so  many  mortifications.  [Exit. 

Sir  Charles.  I'm  astonished  at  the  air  of  sin- 
cerity with  which  he  parted. 

Hard.  And  I'm  astonished  at  the  deliberate 
intrepidity  of  his  assurance. 

Sir  Charles.  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and  honour 
upon  his  truth. 

Hard.  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I  would 
stake  my  happiness  upon  her  veracity. 

Enter  Miss  Hardcastle. 

Hard.  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer  us 
sincerely,  and  without  reserve ;  has  Mr.  Marlow 
made  you  any  professions  of  love  and  affection  ? 

Miss  Hard.  The  question  is  very  abrupt,  sir  ! 
But  since  you  require  unreserved  sincerity,  I  think 
he  has. 

Hard.  (To  Sir  Charles.)  You  see. 

Sir  Charles.  And  pray,  madam,  have  you  and 
my  son  had  more  than  one  interview  ? 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  377 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  sir,  several. 

Hard.  {To  Sir  Charles.)  You  see. 

Sir  Charles.   But  did  he  profess  any  attachment? 

Miss  Hard.  A  lasting  one. 

Sir  Charles.  Did  he  talk  of  love  ? 

Miss  Hard.  Much,  sir. 

Sir  Charles.  Amazing  !     And  all  this  formally? 

Miss  Hard.   Formally. 

Hard.  Now,  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are  satisfied. 

Sir  Charles.  And  how  did  he  behave,  madam? 

Miss  Hard.  As  most  professed  admirers  do. 
Said  some  civil  things  of  my  face,  talked  much 
of  his  want  of  merit,  and  the  greatness  of  mine  ; 
mentioned  his  heart,  gave  a  short  tragedy  speech, 
and  ended  with  pretended  rapture. 

Sir  Charles.  Now  I'm  perfectly  convinced,  in- 
deed. I  know  his  conversation  among  women  to 
be  modest  and  submissive.  This  forward,  canting, 
ranting  manner  by  no  means  describes  him,  and  I 
am  confident  he  never  sat  for  the  picture. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  what,  sir,  if  I  should  con- 
vince you  to  your  face  of  my  sincerity?  If  you 
and  my  papa,  in  about  half-an-hour,  will  place 
yourselves  behind  that  screen,  you  shall  hear  him 
declare  his  passion  to  me  in  person. 

Sir  Charles.  Agreed.  And  if  I  find  him  what 
you  describe,  all  my  happiness  in  him  must  have 
an  end.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  And  if  you  don't  find  him  what  I 
describe— I  fear  my  happiness  must  never  have  a 
beginning.  {Exeunt. 


373  FLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Scene.  —  Changes  to  the  back  of  I  he  Garden. 

Enter  Hastings. 
Hastings.  What  an  idiot  am  I,  to  wait  here  for 
a  fellow,  who  probably  takes  a  delight  in  mortify- 
ing me.  He  never  intended  to  be  punctual,  and 
I'll  wait  no  longer.  What  do  I  see?  It  is  he, 
and  perhaps  with  news  of  my  Constance. 

Enter  TONY,  booted  and  spattered. 

Hastings.  My  honest  'Squire  !  I  now  find  you 
a  man  of  your  word.     This  looks  like  friendship. 

Tony.  Ay,  I'm  your  friend,  and  the  best  friend 
you  have  in  the  world,  if  you  knew  but  all.  This 
riding  by  night,  by-the-bye,  is  cursedly  tiresome. 
It  has  shook  me  worse  than  the  basket  of  a  stage- 
coach. l 

Hastings.  But  how  ?  Where  did  you  leave  your 
fellow-travellers?  Are  they  in  safety ?  Are  they 
housed  ? 

Tony.  Five  and  twenty  miles  in  two  hours  and 
a  half  is  no  such  bad  driving.  The  poor  beasts 
have  smoked  for  it  :  Rabbit  me,  but  I'd  rather 
ride  forty  miles  after  a  fox,  than  ten  with  such 
varmint. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  where  have  you  left  the 
ladies?     I  die  with  impatience. 

Tony.  Left  them  ?  Why,  where  should  I  leave 
them,  but  where  I  found  them  ? 

//listings.   This  is  a  riddle. 

t1  Cf.  C.  P.  Moritz,  Travels  in  England  in  17S2.J 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  379 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this,  then.  What's  that  goes 
round  the  house,  and  round  the  house,  and  never 
touches  the  house  ? 

Hastings.  I'm  still  astray. 

Tony.  Why,  that's  it,  mon.  I  have  led  them 
astray.  By  jingo,  there's  not  a  pond  or  slough 
within  five  miles  of  the  place  but  they  can  tell  the 

taste  of. 

Hastings.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  I  understand  ;  you  took 
them  in  a  round,  while  they  supposed  themselves 
going  forward.  And  so  you  have  at  last  brought 
them  home  again. 

Tony.  You  shall  hear.  I  first  took  them  down 
Feather-bed-lane,  where  we  stuck  fast  in  the  mud. 
I  then  rattled  them  crack  over  the  stones  of  Up- 
and-down  Hill— I  then  introduced  them  to  the 
gibbet  on  Heavy-tree  Heath,  and  from  that,  with 
a  circumbendibus,  I  fairly  lodged  them  in  the 
horsepond  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 

Hastings.  But  no  accident,  I  hope. 

Tony.  No,  no.  Only  mother  is  confoundedly 
frightened.  She  thinks  herself  forty  miles  off.1 
She's  sick  of  the  journey,  and  the  cattle  can  scarce 
crawl.  So,  if  your  own  horses  be  ready,  you  may 
whip  off  with  cousin,  and  I'll  be  bound  that  no 
soul  here  can  budge  a  foot  to  follow  you. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be  grate- 
ful ? 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it's  dear  friend,  noble  'Squire. 
Just  now,  it  was  all  idiot,  cub,  and  run  me 
through  the  guts.     Damn  your  way  of  fighting, 

[I  A  trick  of  this  kind  was  afterwards  played  by  Sherid.ui 
ou  Madame  de  Genlis  (Memoirs,  1825,  iv.  113-8).] 


380  FLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

I  say.  After  we  take  a  knock  in  this  part  of  the 
country,  we  kiss  and  be  friends.  But  if  you  had 
run  me  through  the  guts,  then  I  should  be  dead, 
and  you  might  go  kiss  the  hangman. 

Hastings.  The  rebuke  is  just.  But  I  must 
hasten  to  relieve  Miss  Neville ;  if  you  keep  the 
old  lady  employed,  I  promise  to  take  care  of  the 
young  one.  {Exit  Hastings. 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Here  she  comes.  Vanish. 
She's  got  from  the  pond,  and  draggled  up  to  the 
waist  like  a  mermaid. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hardcastle. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Oh,  Tony,  I'm  killed.  Shook. 
Battered  to  death.  I  shall  never  survive  it.  That 
last  jolt  that  laid  us  against  the  quickset  hedge 
has  done  my  business. 

Tony.  Alack,  mamma,  it  was  all  your  own 
fault.  You  would  be  for  running  away  by  night, 
without  knowing  one  inch  of  the  way. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again.  I 
never  met  so  many  accidents  in  so  short  a  journey. 
Drenched  in  the  mud,  overturned  in  a  ditch,  stuck 
fast  in  a  slough,  jolted  to  a  jelly,  and  at  last  to 
lose  our  way  !  Whereabouts  do  you  think  we  are, 
Tony  ? 

Tony.  By  my  guess  we  should  be  upon  Crack- 
skull  Common,  about  forty  miles  from  home. 

Mrs.  Hard.  O  hid  !  O  lud  !  the  most  notorious 
spot  in  all  the  country.  We  only  want  a  robbery 
to  make  a  complete  night  on't. 

'Tony.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma,  don't  be  afraid. 
Two  of  the  live  that  kept  here  arc  hanged,  and  the 


SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER.  38 1 

other  three  may  not  find  us.  Don't  be  afraid.  Is 
that  a  man  that's  gallopiug  behind  us  ?  No  ;  its 
only  a  tree.     Don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hard.  The  fright  will  certainly  kill  me. 

Tony.  Do  you  see  any  thing  like  a  black  hat 
moving  behind  the  thicket  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.   O  death  ! 

Toizy.  No,  it's  only  a  cow.  Don't  be  afraid, 
mamma,  don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hard.  As  I'm  alive,  Tony,  I  see  a  man 
coming  towards  us.  Ah  !  I'm  sure  on't.  If  he 
perceives  us,  we  are  undone. 

Tony  {aside).  Father-in-law,  by  all  that's  un- 
lucky, come  to  take  one  of  his  night  walks.  {To 
her.)  Ah,  it's  a  highwayman,  with  pistols  as  long 
as  my  arm.     A  damned  ill-looking  fellow. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Good  heaven  defend  us  !  He  ap- 
proaches. 

Tony.  Do  you  hide  yourself  in  that  thicket,  and 
leave  me  to  manage  him.  If  there  be  any  danger 
I'll  cough  and  cry  hem.  When  I  cough  be  sure 
to  keep  close.       [Mrs.  Hardcastle  hides  behind 

a  tree  in  the  back  scene. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  I'm  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of  people 
in  want  of  help.  Oh,  Tony,  is  that  you  ?  I  did 
not  expect  you  so  soon  back.  Are  your  mother 
and  her  charge  in  safety  ? 

Tony.  Very  safe,  sir,  at  my  aunt  Pedigree's. 
Hem. 

Airs.  Hard.  {From  behind.)  Ah!  I  find  there's 
danger. 


332  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Hard.  Forty  miles  in  three  hours  ;  sure,  that's 
too  much,  my  youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  willing  minds  make 
short  journeys,  as  they  say.     Hem. 

Mrs.  Hard.  {From  behind.)  Sure  he'll  do  the 
dear  boy  no  harm. 

Hard.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here  ;  I  should  be 
glad  to  know  from  whence  it  came  ? 

Tony.  It  was  I,  sir,  talking  to  myself,  sir.  I 
was  saying  that  forty  miles  in  four  hours  was  very 
good  going.  Hem.  As  to  be  sure  it  was.  Hem. 
I  have  got  a  sort  of  cold  by  being  out  in  the  air. 
We'll  go  in  if  you  please.     Hem. 

Hard.  But  if  you  talked  to  yourself,  you  did  not 
answer  yourself.  I  am  certain  I  heard  two  voices, 
and  am  resolved  {Raising  his  voice.)  to  find  the 
other  out. 

Mrs.  Hard.  {From  behind.)  Oh  !  he's  coming  to 
find  me  out.     Oh  ! 

Tony.  What  need  you  go,  sir,  if  I  tell  you? 
Hem.  I'll  lay  down  my  life  for  the  truth — hem — 
I'll  tell  you  all,  sir.  [Detaining  him. 

Hard.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  be  detained.  I  insist 
on  seeing.     It's  in  vain  to  expect  I'll  believe  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  {Running  fortuard  from  behind.) 
O  lud,  he'll  murder  my  poor  boy,  my  darling. 
Here,  good  gentleman,  whet  your  rage  upon  me. 
Take  my  money,  my  life,  but  spare  that  young 
gentleman,  spare  my  child,  if  you  have  any'mercy. 

Hard.  My  wife  !  as  I'm  a  Christian.  From 
whence  can  she  come,  or  what  does  she  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  {Kneeling.)  Take  compassion  on  us, 
good   Mr.    Highwayman.     Take  our  money,  our 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  383 

watches,  all  we  have,  but  spare  our  lives.  We 
will  never  bring  you  to  justice,  indeed  we  won't, 
good  Mr.  Highwayman. 

Hard.  I  believe  the  woman's  out  of  her  senses. 
What,  Dorothy,  don't  you  know  mei 

Mrs.  Hard.  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I'm  alive  !  My 
fears  blinded  me.  But  who,  my  dear,  could  have 
expected  to  meet  you  here,  in  this  frightful  place, 
so  far  from  home.  What  has  brought  you  to 
follow  us  ? 

Hard.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  havenot  lostyour  wits! 
So  far  from  home,  when  you  are  within  forty  yards 
of  your  own  door  !  {To  him.)  This  is  one  of  your 
old  tricks,  you  graceless  rogue,  you !  ( To  her.) 
Don't  you  know  the  gate,  and  the  mulberry-tree ; 
and  don't  you  remember  the  horsepond,  my  dear  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the  horse- 
pond  as  long  as  I  live  ;  I  have  caught  my  death  in 
it.  {To  Tony.)  And  is  it  to  you,  you  graceless 
varlet,  I  owe  all  this?  I'll  teach  you  to  abuse 
your  mother,  I  will. 

Tony.  Ecod,  mother,  all  the  parish  says  you 
have  spoiled  me,  and  so  you  may  take  the  fruits  on't. 

Mrs.  Hard.   I'll  spoil  you,  I  will. 

[Follows  him  off  the  stage.     Exit. 

Hard.  There's  morality,  however,  in  his  reply. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Constance,  why  will  you 
deliberate  thus  ?  If  we  delay  a  moment,  all  is  lost 
for  ever.  Pluck  up  a  little  resolution,  and  we  shall 
soon  be  out  of  the  reach  of  her  malignity. 


384  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Miss  Neville.  I  find  it  impossible.  My  spirits  are 
so  sunk  with  the  agitations  I  have  suffered,  that  I  am 
unable  to  face  any  new  danger.  Two  or  three  years' 
patience  will  at  last  crown  us  with  happiness. 

Hastings.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse  than  in- 
constancy. Let  us  fly,  my  charmer.  Let  us  date  our 
happiness  from  this  very  moment.  Perish  fortune. 
Love  and  content  will  increase  what  we  possess 
beyond  a  monarch's  revenue.     Let  me  prevail. 

Miss  Neville.  No,  Mr.  Hastings,  no.  Prudence 
once  more  comes  to  my  relief,  and  I  will  obey  its 
dictates.  In  the  moment  of  passion,  fortune  may 
be  despised,  but  it  ever  produces  a  lasting  repen- 
tance. I'm  resolved  to  apply  to  Mr.  Ilardcastle's 
compassion  and  justice  for  redress. 

Hastings.  But  though  he  had  the  will,  he  has 
not  the  power  to  relieve  you. 

Miss  Neville.  But  he  has  influence,  and  upon 
that  I  am  resolved  to  rely. 

Hastings.  I  have  no  hopes.  But  since  you 
persist,  I  must  reluctantly  obey  you.         [Exeunt. 

Scen  E.  —  Changes. 

Enter  Sir  CHARLES  and  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Sir  Charles.  What  a  situation  am  I  in  !  If  what 
you  say  appears,  I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.  If 
what  he  says  be  true,  I  shall  then  lose  one  that, 
of  all  others,  I  most  wished  for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hard.  I  am  proud  of  your  approbation  ; 
and,  to  show  I  merit  it,  if  you  place  yourselves  as 
I  directed,  you  shall  hear  his  explicit  declaration. 
But  he  comes. 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  3S5 

Sir  Charles.  I'll  to  your  father,  and  keep  him 
to  the  appointment.  [Exit  Sir  Charles. 

Enter  Marlow. 

Marlow.  Though  prepared  for  setting  out, 
I  come  once  more  to  take  leave,  nor  did  I, 
till  this  moment,  know  the  pain  I  feel  in  the 
separation. 

Miss  Hard.  (In  her  own  natural  manner.)  I 
believe  these  sufferings  cannot  be  very  great,  sir, 
which  you  can  so  easily  remove.  A  day  or  two 
longer,  perhaps,  might  lessen  your  uneasiness,  by 
showing  the  little  value  of  what  you  think  proper 
to  regret. 

Marlow  (aside).  This  girl  every  moment  im- 
proves upon  me.  (To  her.)  It  must  not  be, 
madam.  I  have  already  trifled  too  long  with 
my  heart.  My  veiy  pride  begins  to  submit  to 
my  passion.  The  disparity  of  education  and  for- 
tune, the  anger  of  a  parent,  and  the  contempt  of 
my  equals,  begin  to  lose  their  weight  ;  and  nothing 
can  restore  me  to  myself  but  this  painful  effort  of 
resolution. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  go,  sir.  I'll  urge  nothing 
more  to  detain  you.  Though  my  family  be  as 
good  as  her's  you  came  down  to  visit,  and  my 
education,  I  hope,  not  inferior,  what  are  these 
advantages  without  equal  affluence?  I  must 
remain  contented  with  the  slight  approbation 
of  imputed  merit ;  I  must  have  only  the  mockery 
of  your  addresses,  while  all  your  serious  aims  are 
fixed  on  fortune. 

cc 


3S6  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Enter  Hardcastle  and  Sir  Charles  from 
behind. 

Sir  Charles.  Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hard.  Ay,  ay,  make  no  noise.  I'll  engage  my 
Kate  covers  him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Marloiv.  By  heavens,  madam,  fortune  was  ever 
my  smallest  consideration.  Your  beauty  at  first 
caught  my  eye ;  for  who  could  see  that  without 
emotion?  But  every  moment  that  I  converse  with 
you,  steals  in  some  new  grace,  heightens  the 
picture,  and  gives  it  stronger  expression.  What  at 
first  seemed  rustic  plainness,  now  appears  refined 
simplicity.  What  seemed  forward  assurance, 
now  strikes  me  as  the  result  of  courageous  inno- 
cence, and  conscious  virtue. 

Sir  Charles.  What  can  it  mean  ?  He  amazes 
me  ! 

Hard.  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.     Hush  ! 

Jlfarlozv.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  madam, 
and  I  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  my  father's  dis- 
cernment, when  he  sees  you,  to  doubt  his  approba- 
tion. 

Miss  Hard.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not,  can- 
not detain  you.  Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  a 
connexion,  in  which  there  is  the  smallest  room  for 
repentance  ?  Do  you  think  I  would  take  the  mean 
advantage  of  a  transient  passion,  to  load  you  with 
confusion  ?  Do  you  think  I  could  ever  relish  that 
happiness,  which  was  acquired  by  lessening  your's  ? 

Alarloiv.  By  all  that's  good,  I  can  have  no 
happiness  but  what's  in  your  power  to  grant  me. 
Nor  shall  I  ever  feel  repentance,  but  in  not  having 


she  stoops  to  conquer.  387 

seen  your  merits  before.  I  will  stay,  even  contrary 
to  your  wishes  ;  and  though  you  should  persist  to 
shun  me,  I  will  make  my  respectful  assiduities 
atone  for  the  levity  of  my  past  conduct. 

Miss  Hard.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you'll  desist. 
As  our  acquaintance  began,  so  let  it  end,  in  in- 
difference. I  might  have  given  an  hour  or  two  to 
levity ;  but,  seriously,  Mr.  Marlow,  do  you  think 
I  could  ever  submit  to  a  connexion,  where  /must 
appear  mercenary,  and  you  imprudent  ?  Do  you 
think  I  could  ever  catch  at  the  confident  addresses 
of  a  secure  admirer? 

Marlow  {Kneeling).  Does  this  look  like  se- 
curity ?  Does  this  look  like  confidence  ?  No, 
madam,  every  moment  that  shows  me  your  merit, 
only  serves  to  increase  my  diffidence  and  confusion. 
Here  let  me  continue 

Sir  Charles.  I  can  hold  it  no  longer.  Charles, 
Charles,  how  hast  thou  deceived  me  :  Is  this  your 
indifference,  your  uninteresting  conversation  ! 

Hard.  Your  cold  contempt !  your  formal  inter- 
view !    What  have  you  to  say  now  ? 

Marlow.  That  I'm  all  amazement !  What  can 
it  mean? 

Hard.  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  unsay 
things  at  pleasure.  That  you  can  address  a  lady 
in  private,  and  deny  it  in  public ;  that  you  have 
one  story  for  us,  and  another  for  my  daughter  ! 

Marlow.  Daughter  ! — this  lady  your  daughter  ! 

Hard.  Yes,  sir,  my  only  daughter.  My  Kate, 
whose  else  should  she  be  ? 

Marlow.  Oh,  the  devil ! 

Miss  Hard.    Yes,   sir,  that  very  identical  tall 


i 


388  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

squinting  lady  you  were  pleased  to  take  me  for. 
{Curtseying.)  She  that  you  addressed  as  the  mild, 
modest,  sentimental  man  of  gravity,  and  the  bold, 
forward,  agreeable  rattle  of  the  ladies'  club :  ha, 
ha,  ha. 

Marlozv.  Zounds,  there's  no  bearing  this;  it's 
worse  than  death  ! 

Miss  Hard.  In  which  of  your  characters,  sir, 
will  you  give  us  leave  to  address  you?  As  the 
faltering  gentleman,  with  looks  on  the  ground,  that 
speaks  just  to  be  heard,  and  hates  hypocrisy  :  or 
the  loud  confident  creature,  that  keeps  it  up  with 
Mrs.  Mantrap,  and  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  till 
three  in  the  morning ;  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Marlow.  O,  curse  on  my  noisy  head.  I  never 
attempted  to  be  impudent  yet,  that  I  was  not 
taken  down.     I  must  be  gone. 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you  shall 
not.  I  see  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and  I  am  rejoiced 
to  find  it.  You  shall  not,  sir,  I  tell  you.  I  know 
she'll  forgive  you.  Won't  you  forgive  him,  Kate  ? 
We'll  all  forgive  you.  Take  courage,  man. 
[  They  retire,  she  tormenting  him  to  the  back  scene. 


Enter  Mrs.   IIardcastle,  Tony. 

Mrs.  Hard.  So,  so,  they're  gone  off.  Let  them 
go,  I  care  not. 

Hard.  Who  gone  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gentleman, 
Mr.  Hastings,  from  town.  He  who  came  down 
with  our  modest  visitor,  here. 

Sir  Charles.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hastings? 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  389 

As  worthy  a  fellow  as  lives,  and  the  girl  could  not 
have  made  a  more  prudent  choice. 

Hard.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I'm 
proud  of  the  connexion. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away  the  lady, 
he  has  not  taken  her  fortune,  that  remains  in  this 
family  to  console  us  for  her  loss. 

Hard.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so  mer- 
cenary ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  that's  my  affair,  not  yours. 
But  you  know,  if  your  son  when  of  age,  refuses  to 
marry  his  cousin,  her  whole  fortune  is  then  at  her 
own  disposal. 

Hard.  Ay,  but  he's  not  of  age,  and  she  has  not 
thought  proper  to  wait  for  his  refusal. 

Enter  Hastings  and  Miss  Neville. 

Mrs.  Hard,  {aside.)  What !  returned  so  soon? 
I  begin  not  to  like  it. 

Hastings  {To  Hardcastle).  For  my  late  at- 
tempt to  fly  off  with  your  niece,  let  my  present  con- 
fusion be  my  punishment.  We  are  now  come  back, 
to  appeal  from  your  justice  to  your  humanity.  By 
her  father's  consent,  I  first  paid  her  my  addresses, 
and  our  passions  were  first  founded  in  duty. 

Miss  Neville.  Since  his  death,  I  have  been 
obliged  to  stoop  to  dissimulation  to  avoid  oppres- 
sion. In  an  hour  of  levity,  I  was  ready  even  to 
give  up  my  fortune  to  secure  my  choice.  But  I'm 
now  recovered  from  the  delusion,  and  hope  from 
your  tenderness  what  is  denied  me  from  a  nearer 
connexion. 


39°  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Mrs.  Hani.  Pshaw,  pshaw  !  this  is  all  but  the 
whining  end  of  a  modern  novel. 

Hard.  Be  it  what  it  will,  I'm  glad  they're 
come  back  to  reclaim  their  due.  Come  hither, 
Tony,  boy.  Do  you  refuse  this  lady's  hand  whom 
I  now  offer  you  ? 

Tony.  What  signifies  my  refusing?  You  know 
I  can't  refuse  her  till  I'm  of  age,  father. 

Hard.  While  I  thought  concealing  your  age,  boy, 
was  likely  to  conduce  to  your  improvement,  I 
concurred  with  your  mother's  desire  to  keep  it 
secret.  But  since  I  find  she  turns  it  to  a  wrong 
use,  I  must  now  declare,  you  have  been  of  age 
these  three  months. 

Tony.  Of  age  !  Am  I  of  age,  father  ? 

Hard.  Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you'll  see  the  first  use  I'll  make  of 
my  liberty.  {Taking  Miss  Neville's  hand.)  Wit- 
ness all  men  by  these  presents,  that  I,  Anthony 
Lumpkin,  Esquire,  of  blank  place,  refuse  you, 
Constantia  Neville,  spinster,  of  no  place  at  all, 
for  my  true  and  lawful  wife.  So  Constance 
Neville  may  marry  whom  she  pleases,  and  Tony 
Lumpkin  is  his  own  man  again  ! 

Sir  Charles.  O  brave  'Squire  ! 

Hastings.   My  worthy  friend ! 

Mrs.  Hard.   My  undutiful  offspring  ! 

Marlow.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you  joy, 
sincerely.  And  could  I  prevail  upon  my  little 
tyrant  here  to  be  less  arbitrary,  I  should  be  the 
happiest  man  alive,  if  you  would  return  me  the 
favour. 

Hastings    {To    Miss    HARDCASTLE).       Come, 


SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER.  391 

madam, you  are  now  driven  to  the  very  last  scene  of 
all  your  contrivances.  I  know  you  like  him,  I'm 
sure  he  loves  you,  and  you  must  and  shall  have 
him. 

Hard.  {Joining  their  hands.')  And  I  say  so,  too. 
And  Mr.  Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good  a  wife  as 
she  has  a  daughter,  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever 
repent  your  bargain.  So  now  to  supper,  to- 
morrow we  shall  gather  all  the  poor  of  the  parish 
about  us,  and  the  Mistakes  of  the  Night  shall 
be  crowned  with  a  merry  morning  ;  so  boy,  take 
her  ;  and  as  you  have  been  mistaken  in  the  mis- 
tress, my  wish  is,  that  you  may  never  be  mistaken 
in  the  wife. 


&W^ 


392  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


EPILOGUE. 

BY    DR.    GOLDSMITH.1 

ELL,   having  stooped  to  conquer  with 

success, 
And   gained   a   husband   without    aid 

from  dress, 
Still  as  a  Barmaid,  I  could  wish  it  too, 
As  I  have  conquered  him  to  conquer  you : 
And  let  me  say,  for  all  your  resolution, 
That  pretty  Barmaids  have  done  execution. 
Our  life  is  all  a  play,  composed  to  please, 
"  We  have  our  exits  and  our  entrances."  2 
The  first  act  shows  the  simple  country  maid, 
Harmless  and  young,  of  everything  afraid  ; 
Blushes  when  hired,  and  with  unmeaning  action, 
/  hopes  as  how  to  give  y on  satisfaction. 
Her  second  act  displays  a  livelier  scene, — 
Th'  unblushing  Barmaid  of  a  country  inn. 
Who  whisks  about  the  house,  at  market  caters, 
Talks  loud,  coquets3  the  guests,  and  scolds  the 

waiters. 
Next  the  scene  shifts  to  town,  and  there  she  soars, 

['  This  Epilogue  was  spokea  by  Mrs.  Bulkley  as  "  Miss 
Hardcastle.  "J 

[-  As  you  like  it,  Act  ii.,  Sc.  7.  What  follows  is  of  course 
a  variation  on  the  speech  of  Jaqucs.] 

[3  Coquet  =  to  entertain  with  compliments  (Johnson).] 


SHE  STOOPS   TO  CONQUER.  393 

The  chop-house  toast  of  ogling  connoisseurs. 

On  'Squires  and  Cits  she  there  displays  her  arts, 

And  on  the  gridiron  broils  her  lovers'  hearts — 

And  as  she  smiles,  her  triumphs  to  complete, 

Even  Common  Councilmen  forget  to  eat. 

The  fourth  act  shows  her  wedded  to  the  'Squire, 

And  madam  now  begins  to  hold  it  higher ; 

Pretends  to  taste,  at  Operas  cries  caro, 

And  quits  her  Nancy  Dawson^  for  Che  Faro,2 

Doats  upon  dancing,  and  in  all  her  pride, 

Swims  round  the  room,  the Heinel*  of  Cheapside  : 

Ogles  and  leers  with  artificial  skill, 

Till  having  lost  in  age  the  power  to  kill, 

She  sits  all  night  at  cards,  and  ogles  at  spadille.4 

Such,  through  our  lives,  the  eventful  history — 

The  fifth  and  last  act  still  remains  for  me. 

The  Barmaid  now  for  your  protection  prays, 

Turns  female  Barrister,  and  pleads  for  Bayes.4 

['  See  note,  vol.  i,  p.  132.] 

P  Che  faro  senza  Euridiee  in  Gliick's  Or/eo,  1764.] 

[3  See  note,  vol.  i,  p.  128.] 

[4  The  ace  of  spades, — first  trump  in  Ombre.] 

[5  A  character  in  Buckingham's  Rehearsal,  1672,  intended 
for  Dryden.  Here  it  is  used  by  extension  for  "poet  "or 
"dramatist."] 


39*  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


EPILOGUE.1 

To  be  spoken  in  the  character  of  Tony  Lumpkin. 

BY  J.    CRADOCK   ESQ.8 

\  ELL — now  all's  ended — and  my  com- 
rades gone, 
Pray  what  becomes  of  mother's  nonly 
son  ? 

A  hopeful  blade  ! — in  town  I'll  fix  my  station, 
And  try  to  make  a  bluster  in  the  nation. 
As  for  my  cousin  Neville,  I  renounce  her, 
Off — in  a  crack — I'll  carry  big  Bet  Bouncer. 

Why  should  not  I  in  the  great  world  appear  ? 
I  soon  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  a  year  ; 
No  matter  what  a  man  may  here  inherit, 
In  London — 'gad,  they've  some  regard  for  spirit. 
I  see  the  horses  prancing  up  the  streets, 
And  big  Bet  Bouncer  bobs  to  all  she  meets  ; 
Then  hoikes  to  jiggs  and  pastimes  ev'ry  night — • 
Not  to  the  plays — they  say  it  a'n't  polite, 
To  Sadler's-Wells  3  perhaps,  or  Operas  go, 
And  once  by  chance,  to  the  roratorio. 
Thus  here  and  there,  for  ever  up  and  down, 

1  This  came  too  late  to  be  spoken  (Goldsmith's  note). 
[2  See  note,  vol.  i.,  p.  105.] 

I3   A  popular  pleasure  garden  by  the  New  River  Head, 
the  scene  of  Hogarth's  Evening.} 


SHE  STOOPS   TO   CONQUER. 


395 


We'll  set  the  fashions  too,  to  half  the  town ; 
And  then  at  auctions — money  ne'er  regard, 
Buy  pictures  like  the  great,  ten  pounds  a  yard  : 
Zounds,  we  shall  make  these  London  gentry  say, 
We  know  what's  damned  genteel,  as  well  as  they. 


SCENE    FROM   THE    GRUMBLER, 
A  FARCE. 


ff^Qo 


[The  Grumhler,  never  printed,  was  adapted  by  Goldsmith 
from  Le  Grandeur  of  Brueys  and  Palaprat,  or  rather  from 
Sir  C.  Sedley's  version  of  that  play,  produced  in  1702.  It 
was  written  for  John  Quick,  (d.  1831)  the  actor  of  "Tony 
Lumpkin,"  and  produced  at  his  benefit,  in  May,  1773.  Prior 
printed  the  accompanying  scene  in  the  miscellaneous  Works, 
1837,  from  the  Licenser's  copy.  It  exhibits  the  final  expe- 
dient adopted  by  the  heroine,  who  is  in  love  with  Sourby's 
son,  to  free  herself  from  the  unwelcome  proposals  of  the 
father.] 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 


Sourby  ( The  Grumbler) 

Octavio  (his  Son) 

Wentworth  (Brothcr-i  n-Laiv  to 

Sourby) 
Dancing  Master  (called  Signior 

Capriole  in  the  Bills) 
Scamper  (Servant) 
Clarissa  (in  love  with  Octavio) 
Jenny  (her  Maid) 


Mr.  Quick. 
Mr.  Davis. 

Mr.  Ovvenson. 

Mr.  King. 

Mr.  Saunders. 

Miss  Helme. 

Miss  Pearce. 


SCENE   FROM   THE    GRUMBLER. 


Enter  Scamter  (Sourby's  servant)  to  Sourby, 
and  his  intended  wife's  maid  Jenny. 

Scamper. 
IR,  a  gentleman  would  speak  with  you. 
Jenny.   Good!  Here  comes  Scamper ; 
—  [Aside.)  he'll  manage  you,  I'll  war- 
rant me. 
Sourby.  Who  is  it  ? 

Scamper.  He  says  his  name  is  Monsieur  Ri — Ri 
— stay,  sir,  I'll  go  and  ask  him  again. 

Sourby  (Ptilling  him  by  the  cars).  Take  that, 
sirrah,  by  the  way. 

Scamper.   Ahi  !  Ahi !  [Exit. 

Jenny.   Sir,  you  have  torn  off  his  hair,  so  that 

he  must  now  have  a  wig:  you   have  pulled  Ins 

ears  off;  but  there  are  none  of  them  to  be  had  for 

money  ! 

Sourby.  I'll  teach  him! — 'lis  certainly  Mr. 
Rigaut,  my  notary  ;  I  know  who  it  is,  let  him 
come  in.  Could  he  find  no  time  but  this  to  bring 
me  money?    Plague  take  the  blockhead  ! 


4C2  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Enter  Dancing  Master  and  his  Fiddler. 

Sourby.  This  is  not  my  man.  Who  are  you, 
with  your  compliments? 

Dancing  Master  {Bowing  often).  I  am  called 
Rigaudon,  sir,  at  your  service. 

Sourby  { To  Jenny).  Have  not  I  seen  that  face 
somewhere  before? 

Jenny.  There  are  a  thousand  people  like  one 
another. 

Sourby.  Well,  Mr.  Rigaudon,  what  is  your  busi- 
ness? 

Dancing  Master.  To  give  you  this  letter  from 
Madame  Clarissa. 

Sourby.  Give  it  to  me — I  would  fain  know  who 
taught  Clarissa  to  fold  a  letter  thus.  What  con- 
tains it? 

Jenny  {Aside;  while  he  unfolds  the  letter).  A 
lover,  I  believe,  never  complained  of  that  before. 

Sourby  {Reads).  "Everybody  says  I  am  to 
marry  the  most  brutal  of  men.  I  would  disabuse 
them  ;  and  for  that  reason  you  and  I  must  begin 
the  ball  to-night."     She  is  mad  ! 

Dancing  Master.  Go  on,  pray,  sir. 

Sourby  {Reads).  "You  told  me  you  cannot 
dance  ;  but  I  have  sent  you  the  first  man  in  the 
world."     [Sourby  looks  at  him  from  head  to  foot. 

Dancing  Master.   Oh  Lord,  sir ! 

Sourby  {Reads).  "  Who  will  teach  you  in  less 
than  an  hour  enough  to  serve  your  purpose."  I 
learn  to  dance  ! 

Dancing  Master.   Finish,  if  you  please. 

Sourby  {Reads).   "  And  if  you  love  me,  you  will 


SCE.VE  FROM   THE  GRUMBLER.         4°3 

learn  the  Allemande."  l  The  Allemande  !  I,  the 
Allemande  !  Mr.  the  first  man  in  the  world,  do 
you  know  you  are  in  some  danger  here  ? 

Dancing  Master.  Come,  sir,  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  you  shall  dance  to  a  miracle. 

Sourby.  Mr.  Rigaudon,  do  you  know  I  will 
send  you  out  of  the  window  if  I  call  my  servants? 

Dancing  Master  {Biddinghisinan  play).  Come, 
brisk,  this  little  prelude  will  put  you  in  humour  ; 
you  must  be  held  by  the  hand  ;  or  have  you  some 
steps  of  your  own  ? 

Sourby.   Unless  you  put  up  that  d d  fiddle, 

I'll  beat  it  about  your  ears  ! 

Dancing  A/aster.  Zounds,  sir  !  if  you  are  there- 
abouts, you  shall  dance  presently — I  say  presently. 

Sourby.   Shall  I  dance,  villain  ? 

Dancing  Master.  Yes.     By  the  heavens  above 

shall  you  dance.     I  have  orders  from  Clarissa  to 

make  you  dance.     She  has  paid  me,  and  dance 

you  shall ;  first  let  him  go  out. 

[He  draws  his  sword,  and  puts  it  under  his  arm. 

Sourby.  Ah  !  I'm  dead.  What  a  madman  has 
this  woman  sent  me  ! 

fenny.  I  see  I  must  interpose.  Stay  you  there, 
sir ;  let  me  speak  to  him ;  sir,  pray  do  us  the 
favour  to  go  and  tell  the  lady  that  it's  disagreeable 
to  my  master. 

Dancing  Master.  I  will  have  him  dance. 

Sourby.  The  rascal !  the  rascal ! 

Jenny.  Consider,  if  you  please,  my  master  is  a 
grave  man. 

Dancing  Master.  I'll  have  him  dance. 

['  A  German  dance  movement  in  triple  time.] 


464  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Jenny.   You  may  stand  in  need  of  him. 

Sourby  {Taking  her  aside).  Yes,  tell  him  that 
when  he  will,  without  costing  him  a  farthing,  I'll 
bleed  and  purge  him  his  bellyfull. 

Dancing  Master.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
that ;  I'll  have  him  dance,  or  have  his  blood. 

Sourby.  The  rascal  !  {muttering). 

Jenny.  Sir,  I  can't  work  upon  him ;  the  mad- 
man will  not  hear  reason  ;  some  harm  will  happen 
— we  are  alone. 

Sourby.   'Tis  very  true. 

Jenny.  Look  on  him  ;  he  has  an  ill  look. 

Sourby.   He  has  so  {trembling). 

Dancing  Master.  Make  haste,  I  say,  make 
haste. 

Sourby.   Help  !  neighbours  !  murder  ! 
Jenny.   Aye,    you    may    cry    for   help ;  do    you 
know  that  all  your  neighbours  would  be  glad  to 
see  you  robbed  and  your  throat  cut  ?    Believe  me 
sir,  two  Allemande  steps  may  save  your  life. 

Sourby.  But  if  it  should  come  to  be  known,  I 
should  be  taken  for  a  fool. 

Jenny.  Love  excuses  all  follies ;  and  I  have 
heard  say  that  when  Hercules  was  in  love,  he 
spun  for  Queen  Omphale. 

Sourby.  Yes,  Plercules  spun,  but  Hercules  did 
not  dance  the  Allemande. 

Jenny.  Well,  you  must  tell  him  so  ;  the  gentle- 
man will  teach  you  another. 

Dancing  Master.  Will  you  have  a  minuet,  sir? 

Sourby.  A  minuet ;  no. 

Dancing  A/aster.  The  loure. l 

[l  Loure,  a  grave  dance  a  deux  tem/s.] 


Scene  erom  the  grumbler.       &s 

Sourby.  The  loure  ;  no. 

Dancing  Master.  The  passay  ! 

Sourby.  The  passay  ;  no. 

Dancing  Master.   What  then  ?    The    trocanny, 
the  tricotez,1  the  rigadon  ?   Come,  choose,  choose. 

Sourby.   No,  no,  no,  I  like  none  of  these. 

Dancing  Master.  You   would    have   a    grave, 
serious  dance,  perhaps  ? 

Sourby.  Yes,  a  serious  one,  if  there  be  any — 
but  a  very  serious  dance. 

Dancing  Master.  Well,  the  courante,  the  horn- 
pipe, the  brocane,  the  saraband  ? 

Sourby.  No,  no,  no  ! 

Dancing  Master.  What  the  devil  then  will  you 
have?    But  make  haste,  or — death? 

Sourby.  Come  on,  then,  since  it  must  be  so; 
I'll  learn  a  few  steps  of  the — the— 

Dancing  Master.   What,  of  the— the— 

Sourby.   I  know  not  what. 

Dancing  Master.  You  mock  me,  sir  ;  you  shall 
dance  the  Allemande,  since  Clarissa  will  have  it 
so,  or — 

[He   leads   him  about,  the  fiddle  flaying  tke 
Allemande. 

Sourby.  I  shall  be  laughed  at  by  the  whole 
town  if  it  should  be  known.  I  am  determined, 
for  this  frolic,  to  deprive  Clarissa  of  that  invalu- 
able blessing,  the  possession  of  my  person. 

Dancing  Master.   Come,  come,  sir,  move,  move. 

{Teaching  him.) 

Sourby.   Cockatrice  ! 

P  Tricotel:,  an  old  lively  dance.] 


406  PLAYS  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

Dancing  Master.  One,  two,  three  !  (Teaching.) 
Sourby.  A  d d,  infernal 


Enter  Wentworth. 

Sourby.  Oh  !  brother,  you  are  in  good  time  to 
free  me  from  this  cursed  bondage. 

Wentworth.  How  !  for  shame,  brother,  at  your 
age  to  be  thus  foolish. 

Sourby.  As  I  hope  for  mercy — 

Wentworth.  For  shame,  for  shame — practising 
at  sixty  what  should  have  been  finished  at  six  ! 

Dancing  Master.  He's  not  the  only  grown 
jrentleman  I  have  had  in  hand. 

Wentworth.  Brother,  brother,  you'll  be  the 
mockery  of  the  whole  city. 

Sourby.  Eternal  babbler  !  hear  me  ;  this  cursed 
confounded  villain  will  make  me  dance  perforce. 

Wentworth.   Perforce  ! 

Sourby.  Yes ;  by  order,  he  says,  of  Clarissa  ; 
but  since  I  now  find  she  is  unworthy,  I  give  her 
up — renounce  her  for  ever. 


CHISWICK    PRESS  \— C.  WHITTINGHAM  AND  CO., 
TOOKS  COURT,  CHANCERY  LANE. 


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